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DAYS   IN   THE   OPEN 


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WHEN  THE  SPRING  FRET  COMES  O  ER  YOU 


Cult 


er  ^dcmy  Libtary 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York :  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  125  N.  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto  :  25  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London  :  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh  :    100  Princes  Street 


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Do  you  know  the  blackened  timber — 
do  you  know  that  racing  stream 
With    the   raw,   right-angled   log- 
jam at  the  end; 
And  the  bar  of  sun-warmed  shingle 
where    a    man    may    bask    and 
dream 
To   the  click  of  shod  canoe-poles 
round  the  bend? 
It  is  there  that  we  are  going  with 
our  rods  and  reels  and  traces, 
To  a  silent  smoky  Indian  that  we 
know — 
To  a  couch  of  new-pulled  hemlock, 
with  the  starlight  on  our  faces, 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  us  out  and 
we  must  go! 
— Rudyard  Kipling,  The  Feet 
of  the  Young  Men. 


CONTENTS 

I.    The  Boy  and  the  Brook 
II.    The  Two  Boys 

III.  The  Town-Meeting  at  Blue 

Pool 

IV.  In  the  North  Woods    . 
V.    Over  the  Simplon  Pass 

VI.  On  Sea  and  Shore 

VII.  Among  the  Northern  Pines 

VIII.  .In  the  Land  of  Nod 

IX.  On  Both  Coasts    . 

X.  On  Moosehead  Lake 


Rock 


13 

25 

35 
49 
65 
75 
87 
99 
in 
125 


8  CONTENTS 

XI.    Among  the  Cut-Throats  of  Lake 

Chelan 139 

XII.     Camping  on  the  Nepigon       .         -151 

XIII.  In  a  House-Boat  on  the  Kootenay  167 

XIV.  Skegemog  Point    .         .         .         -183 
XV.    In  the  Algoma  Woods — and  Be- 
fore     .....  199 

XVI.    In  the  Valley  of  the  Dwyfor      .  213 

XVII.    Boy  Life  in  the  Open        .        .  225 

XVIII.    The  Bully  of  the  Upper  Oswe- 

gatchie 239 

XIX.    Olla  Podrida        ....  255 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  When  the  spring  fret  comes  o'er  you  "  .        .   Title 

The  brook  was  ten  miles  of  silvery  laughter     .       14 

Dixon's  Mill!     How  the  nerves  tingle  at  the 

writing  of  those  two  words    .       .        .        .104 

The  waters  of  the  lake  dimple  and  flash  in  the 

sunlight 126 

Here  one  could  catch  mountain  trout  with  the 

fly 146 

We  are  tied  up  to  a  sandy  beach  .  .        .172 

Have  you  forgotten  your  boyhood  ?  .  .     229 

It  was  here  that  the  Bully  was  born  .  .       .     240 

9 


The    sun   was   setting    and    vespers 

done,  the  monks  came  trooping 

out,  one  by  one, 
And   down   they  went   through   the 

garden  trim  in  cassock  and  cowl 

to  the  river's  brim, 
Every  brother  his  rod  he  took,  every 

rod  had  a  line  and  hook, 
Every  hook  had  a  bait  so  fine,  and 

thus  they  sang  in  the  even  shine, 
"Oh!  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  so 

we  fish  the  stream  to-day! 
Oh!  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  so  we 

fish  the  stream  to-day!" 
— Benedict,    To-morrow   Will 
Be   Friday. 


THE  BOY 

AND 

THE  BROOK 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK 


n 

V 

r?*y 

ViS 

'aJP* 

A,  may  I  go  fishing?  " 
.  That  the  boy  should  use  the 
homely  "Ma,"  rather  than 
"  Mamma,"  makes  it  clear  that  he 
is  not  of  our  generation,  although 
his  generous  crop  of  freckles 
looks  familiar,  and  his  blue  jumper,  coming 
down  to  the  knees,  and  that  battered  straw  hat, 
are  sometimes  duplicated  in  our  own  day.  It 
is  fifty  years  across  which  we  look,  even  if  he  does 
stand  out  so  clearly.  The  question  is  one  that  he 
asks  daily,  if  not  oftener,  from  the  time  when  the 
pussy-willows  begin  to  swell  in  the  spring-time,  to 
the  season  for  comforters  and  woollen  mittens  in 
the  late  fall. 

Hark !  Do  you  hear  the  voice  that  is  calling  the 
boy?  It  comes  distinctly  across  the  long  stretch 
of  years,  and  is  as  sweet  and  compelling  now  as 

13 


14  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

when  it  pulled  at  the  heart  of  the  lad  on  that  long- 
ago  summer  day.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  brook.  It 
gurgles  and  laughs  and  pleads.  It  says,  "  Ha !  ha ! 
ha !  Isn't  this  a  beautiful  world,  and  this  the  finest 
day  ever?  Come  on,  little  boy,  and  play  in  my 
ripples.  I've  some  nice  peppermint  growing  on  my 
banks,  and  all  sorts  of  pretty  pebbles  that  I  have 
washed  for  you.  Look  sharp,  now!  Do  you  see 
that  trout  lying  at  the  head  of  the  riffle  ?  Do  you 
know  that  I  counted  thirty-seven  as  big  as  he  is 
between  the  bridge  and  the  Deer  Pond?  Come 
and  catch  'em !  " 

That  brook  was  a  part,  and  a  large  one,  of  the 
first  permanent  impressions  made  upon  the  boy's 
mind.  It  had  its  rise  in  a  little  pond,  concerning 
which  there  was  the  usual  dark  legend  that  it  had 
no  bottom.  Just  what  held  up  the  water  was  a 
mystery,  but  the  boy  never  doubted  the  legend. 
It  was  fed  by  numerous  springs.  Vigorous  and 
noisy  from  the  moment  when  it  broke  forth  from 
its  source,  the  brook  was  ten  miles  of  silvery 
laughter. 

"  If  you'll  not  go  out  of  sight  of  the  house  you 
may  go  for  an  hour,"  says  the  mother,  for  she  too 
has  ears  to  hear  the  call  of  the  brook  and  can 
understand  its  charm  for  her  lad.  "  Just  up  in  the 
pasture-lot  above  the  bridge,"  calls  back  the  boy, 
and  starts  off  with  his  pole  and  a  supply  of  angle- 
worms wrapped  up  in  paper.  Take  special  no- 
tice of  that  pole,  for  it  is  the  joy  of  the  boy's  heart. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK  15 

He  had  thought  that  a  cedar  sapling,  peeled  and 
thoroughly  dried,  made  an  ideal  outfit,  until  a 
friend  gave  him  a  straight  cane-pole  painted  a  bril- 
liant blue.  In  after  years  he  owned  not  a  few 
jointed  rods,  made  by  hand  of  split  bamboo;  but 
the  tide  of  joy  and  pride  has  never  risen  higher  in 
his  heart  than  on  the  day  when  he  became  the  pos- 
sessor of  the  blue  cane-pole. 

There  is  a  place  in  the  pasture-lot  where  the 
brook  stretches  itself  out  in  a  long  reach  of  still 
water.  Above  and  below  are  rippling  shallows. 
Wary  as  is  his  approach,  the  boy  sees  the  shy  trout 
darting  from  the  riffles  into  the  darker  water. 
Patiently  he  dangles  his  baited  hook  by  the  side  of 
a  sunken  log,  and  trails  it  temptingly  back  and 
forth  before  the  coverts  where  the  cunning  fish  lie 
hidden,  but  all  in  vain.  They  have  learned  by  ex- 
perience that  the  presence  of  a  blue  jumper  and  a 
blue  pole  spells  out  danger  for  them,  and  refuse  to 
take  any  risks.  Is  this,  like  so  many  other  fishing 
trips,  to  end  in  failure  ?  Watch  the  boy !  Laying 
the  blue  pole  carefully  on  the  ground,  he  rolls  his 
sleeves  to  his  shoulders  and,  lying  on  his  stomach 
on  the  bank  of  the  brook,  thrusts  one  hand  very 
gently  into  the  water.  With  the  utmost  caution  he 
feels  here  and  there  under  the  overhanging  sods 
until  at  last  his  fingers  touch  something  that  sends 
an  electric  thrill  tingling  through  the  length  of  his 
little  body.  He  feels  a  trout,  and  strangely 
enough  it  does  not  stir.     The  little  fingers  gently 


16  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

tickle  the  belly  of  the  trout  as  they  work  their  way 
towards  its  head,  and  when  they  have  encircled  the 
body  at  the  gills  they  suddenly  contract  and  the  fish 
is  thrown  far  back  upon  the  grass.  This  perform- 
ance is  repeated  three  or  four  times,  and  then  the 
trophies  are  gathered  up  in  the  jumper  and  with 
blue  pole  over  his  shoulder  the  boy  goes  proudly 
homeward. 

Many  years  after  the  boy  had  grown  to  manhood 
he  was  riding  with  a  friend  on  their  way  to  a 
famous  trout  preserve.  Naturally,  the  conversa- 
tion turned  to  fishing  experiences,  and  he  told  the 
story  of  the  brook  and  of  catching  trout  with  his 
hands.  The  friend  looked  a  whole  volume  of  in- 
credulity and  exclaimed,  "  Well,  of  all  the  fish-lies 
I  ever  heard  that  takes  the  cake."  When  the  club- 
house was  reached  the  keeper,  a  canny  Scotchman, 
was  interviewed.  "  Andrew,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
catching  trout  with  the  hands  ?  "  "  Is  it  guddlin' 
you  mean?  Mony  a  time.  I've  caught  plenty  of 
'em  in  the  burns  when  a  boy."  The  skeptic  was 
silenced  if  not  convinced.  Since  that  time  a 
heated  discussion  of  this  mooted  question  has  ap- 
peared in  a  prominent  sporting  journal,  and  able 
arguments  have  been  adduced  to  prove  the  impos- 
sibility of  any  such  feat  as  that  ascribed  to  the  boy. 
But  he  knows,  and  the  brook  knows,  and  the  blue 
pole  knows ;  and  those  may  doubt  who  will. 

"May  I  go  fishin'  down  in  the  woods?"  The 
question  came  from  an  anxious  heart,  and  the  boy 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK  17 

proceeded  to  support  his  request  with  reasons. 
"  The  biggest  trout  are  down  there.  Edwin 
Crumb  caught  one  that  weighed  'most  a  pound 
down  there  last  week.  There  are  no  big  ones  in 
the  pasture-lot.  I'll  be  careful,  and  I'm  'most 
seven  now,  you  know."  It  was  a  momentous 
question.  For  two  miles  after  leaving  the  bridge 
the  brook  ran  through  the  woods,  and  the  mother 
fancied  all  manner  of  possible  and  impossible  dan- 
gers to  her  boy  lurking  among  those  trees.  But 
then,  the  lad  must  be  allowed  to  go  out  of  her  sight 
some  time,  and  the  day  was  full  of  sunshine. 

"  If  you'll  be  very  careful,  and  not  go  far,  and  be 
back  early,  you  may  go."  "  Whoop ! "  and  a 
small  boy  has  disappeared  from  view  before  the 
permission  is  fairly  spoken.  No  blue  pole  this 
time.  The  brush  and  alders  are  too  thick  and  the 
pole  too  long.  It  is  only  a  small  birch  limb,  six 
feet  long,  possibly,  that  he  pulls  out  from  under 
the  barn  as  he  hurries  to  get  out  of  hearing  before 
the  mother  repents  her  rashness. 

What  a  day  that  was!  He  has  not  gone  far 
before,  alongside  the  alders  in  the  swift  water, 
almost  at  his  feet,  he  captures  a  larger  trout  than 
any  ever  granted  him  by  the  pasture-lot.  He  cuts 
a  stringer  from  the  over-hanging  alders,  and  with 
fish  in  one  hand  and  pole  in  the  other  proceeds  on 
his  adventurous  way.  For  some  time  he  steals 
along  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  brook,  eagerly  expec- 
tant but  without  getting  even  a  bite.     Certainly 


18  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

this  is  not  very  exciting,  and  his  gaze  begins  to 
wander  to  the  woods.  Is  that  crinkle-root?  In- 
vestigation yields  a  plentiful  supply  of  the  peppery 
plant  and  also  three  or  four  ground-nuts.  Then 
the  brook  pulls  him  back  to  itself  and  a  few  rods 
farther  on  he  comes  to  a  log  across  the  stream  and 
partly  under  water.  His  heart  gives  a  thump,  for 
this  must  be  the  place  where  Edwin  Crumb  caught 
his  big  trout.  It  exactly  fits  the  oft-repeated  de- 
scription. He  leaves  the  bed  of  the  brook,  fetches 
a  circuit  through  the  brush  and  comes  out  just 
where  he  can  drop  his  hook  by  the  upper  side  of 
the  log  in  the  still  water.  The  answer  to  his  invi- 
tation is  prompt,  but  the  captive  is  not  as  large  as 
was  anticipated.  Again  and  yet  again  he  returns 
his  lure  only  to  meet  a  cordial  reception,  until  five 
fair-sized  trout  have  been  added  to  the  alder 
stringer;  then  activities  cease. 

We  cannot  follow  him  all  through  his  eventful 
pilgrimage,  but  there  is  one  experience  that  must 
not  go  unrecorded.  In  a  tangle  of  brush  formed 
by  a  tree-top  which  has  fallen  into  a  deep  place  in 
the  stream  he  spies  an  open  space,  possibly  eighteen 
inches  in  diameter,  where  the  water  is  covered  with 
scum  and  foam.  Just  the  place  for  a  big  trout,  but 
there  is  no  way  of  getting  even  his  short  pole 
through  the  brush.  The  line  is  untied,  and  he  goes 
crawling  out  on  a  limb  that  hangs  over  the  brook, 
and  sits,  at  last,  astride  it  and  directly  above  the 
enticing  spot.     A  fresh  and  exceedingly  fat  angle- 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK  19 

worm  is  looped  upon  the  hook  and  the  wriggling 
mass  is  cautiously  dropped  into  the  middle  of  the 
scum.  It  has  no  sooner  touched  the  water  than 
there  is  a  sharp  tug  and  a  mighty  swirl,  but  only 
the  hook  and  the  remainders  of  the  worm  come 
back  in  answer  to  his  pull.  Another  bait,  and 
again  the  hook  is  lowered  into  the  pool.  No,  the 
old  fellow  was  not  pricked  the  first  time,  for  here 
he  is  again  and  this  time  firmly  hooked.  To  bal- 
ance the  body  on  the  limb  when  both  hands  are 
employed  in  tugging  on  the  line,  is  no  easy  task,  but 
at  last  the  trout  is  in  his  hands  and  hugged  to  his 
breast.  With  the  fingers  of  one  hand  through  his 
gills  and  the  thumb  among  the  sharp  teeth  of  the 
fish's  mouth,  the  slow  journey  is  made  back  to  the 
shore.  Glory  enough  for  one  day!  The  prize 
measures  about  twelve  inches  and  is  thick  through. 
Edwin  Crumb's  trout  is  beaten  with  room  to  spare. 
But  now  it  dawns  upon  the  boy  that  he  has  been 
gone  a  long  time,  and  if  he  hopes  to  be  permitted  to 
repeat  this  trip  he  must  hurry  home.  He  also  be- 
comes acutely  conscious  of  an  awful  vacuum  in  the 
region  of  his  stomach  which  even  crinkle-root  and 
ground-nuts  will  not  fill.  He  reasons  with  himself 
that  he  can  reach  home  more  quickly  by  striking 
through  the  woods  to  the  road  than  by  retracing 
his  way  along  the  brook.  He  is  very  sure  that  he 
knows  the  way,  but  his  certitude  evaporates 
steadily  as  he  plunges  his  way  through  the  woods. 
Just  when  he  admits  to  himself  that  he  has  no 


20  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

idea  in  which  direction  the  road  lies,  he  emerges 
into  a  clearing  and  sees  before  him  a  group  of  farm 
buildings.  They  are  certainly  unfamiliar;  but 
some  one  must  live  here  and  he  can  get  directions 
as  to  his  shortest  way  home.  Who  is  that  in  the 
doorway?  It  cannot  be  Mrs.  Woodman  whose 
home  is  only  a  short  half-mile  from  his  own?  But 
it  is,  and,  to  make  his  joy  complete,  this  is  baking 
day  and  the  good  woman  hands  him  out  an  apple 
turnover.  All  turnovers  are  good,  but  that  one 
was  far  and  away  the  best  ever  baked.  A  hungry 
boy  and  an  apple  turnover  form  a  great  combina- 
tion. 

It  would  not  do  to  say  that  the  boy  and  the  brook 
were  inseparable  companions,  for  there  were  long 
months  when  the  Frost  King  had  everything  his 
own  way  and  the  merry  stream  found  it  hard  work 
to  maintain  its  appearance  even  on  the  shallow  rif- 
fles. Then  there  were  swift  flights  down  the  hill- 
sides for  the  boy,  and  long  journeys  up  again  drag- 
ging his  sled.  Often  in  the  long  winter  nights  he 
heard  the  half -smothered  gurgle  of  the  near-by 
brook,  and  wondered  where  the  trout  lived  when 
the  thermometer  was  below  zero. 

Even  in  the  summer  days  the  two  friends  could 
not  be  together  all  the  time.  A  mile  or  so  over  the 
hill  was  the  brown  school-house  to  which  the  boy 
must  make  his  pilgrimages  five  days  each  week  for 
three  months  at  a  time,  and  where  he  learned, 
helped  by  the  pictures,  that  three  cherries  and  two 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK  21 

cherries  make  five  cherries,  and  wrestled  more  or 
less  successfully  with  the  multiplication  table. 
The  old  meadow  just  above  the  orchard  was  a 
famous  place  for  strawberries,  and  many  hours  the 
boy  spent  in  gathering  the  luscious  fruit  while  the 
bobolinks,  perched  on  swaying  mullein  stalks  or 
the  old  rail- fence,  engaged  in  a  vocal  contest  of 
riotous  and  maudlin  song.  Then  a  robin  had  built 
its  nest  on  one  of  the  big  beams  under  the  meeting- 
house shed  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  eggs  must 
needs  be  watched  and  the  young  birds  looked  after. 
Sometimes  the  children  strayed  into  the  burial 
ground  adjoining  the  church  and  pushed  aside  the 
myrtle  to  read  on  the  little  head-stone  the  name  of 
a  child  that  had  died  long,  long  ago. 

If  anything  could  make  the  boy  forget  the  brook 
it  was  his  dog.  Very  likely  the  dog  had  a  pedi- 
gree, but  it  had  not  been  recorded,  and  he  was  as 
dear  to  the  heart  of  the  child  as  if  his  ancestors  had 
all  been  decorated  with  blue  ribbons.  Pedro  and 
the  lad  knew  where  the  woodchucks  lived  on  the 
side  of  the  hill  above  the  pond,  and  it  was  a  red- 
letter  day  when  one  of  them  was  cut  off  from  his 
hole  by  the  two  hunters  and  Pedro  vanquished  him 
in  a  pitched  battle. 

The  brook  has  run  through  the  years  and  its 
laughter  sounds  now  in  the  ears  of  the  writer. 
Somehow  he  hopes  that  the  River  of  Life  will  be 
like  the  brook,  larger  grown.  And  ever  as  its 
murmur  is  heard  a  vision  of  the  mother  is  seen. 


22  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

The  two  grew  into  the  boy's  heart  together.  In 
the  last  days  when  that  mother  had  grown  weary 
and  was  waiting  for  rest,  the  son  sat  by  her  bed- 
side and  they  talked  together  of  the  long  past  days, 
of  the  home  under  the  hill,  of  friends  gone  on  into 
the  silence,  and  of  the  brook  with  its  sun-painted 
trout.  She  has  been  sleeping  for  many  years  on 
the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  lulled  by  the  cease- 
less flow  of  the  noble  river  with  whose  waters  the 
waters  of  the  brook  are  mingled. 


THE  TWO 
BOYS 


%m<® 


Here  is  a  story  of  something  that 
was  shown  me  when  I  was  a  little 
boy.  Every  time  I  think  of  this 
story  it  seems  to  me  more  and  more 
charming.  For  it  is  with  some 
stories  as  it  is  with  many  people — 
they  become  better  as  they  grow 
older.  .  .  .  And  that  something 
which  was  told  me  when  I  was  a 
child,  you  shall  hear  too,  and  learn 
that  whatever  an  old  man  does,  is 
generally  right. — Hans  Christian 
Andersen,  The  Wife  Perfect. 


II 


THE  TWO  BOYS 

E  may  safely  interpret  a  lowery  day 
in  haying  time  as  a  providential 
hint  to  go  fishing.  It  did  not  re- 
quire a  strong  hint  of  this  kind 
to  move  grandfather,  especially 
when  the  boy  was  around;  for  he 
not  only  loved  to  fish  but  he  loved  the  boy  who 
loved  to  fish,  and  was  always  planning  something 
for  his  pleasure. 

Why  not  stop  for  a  moment  just  here  to  consider 
what  sort  of  a  grandfather  a  boy  should  have? 
Of  course  he  must  have  white  hair  and  a  kindly 
face,  but  these  are  comparatively  unimportant  parts 
of  his  outfit.  It  is  the  disposition  that  counts. 
He  must  not  have  nerves.  The  peppery,  irascible, 
impatient  man,  who  growls  and  sputters  on  the 
least  provocation,  should  never  set  up  in  business 
as  a  grandfather.     In  order  to  highest  excellence 

25 


26  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

he  should  keep  the  boy-spirit  through  all  the  ex- 
periences of  life.  The  man  who  has  entirely 
ceased  to  be  a  boy  is  disqualified. 

This  particular  grandsire  filled  the  bill  com- 
pletely. He  never  scolded,  and  never  even  grew 
tired  of  answering  questions.  When  the  little  lad 
had  reached  the  sled  age,  the  cunning  hands  of  his 
grandfather  built  him  one  that  could  easily  dis- 
tance all  competitors.  When  skates  had  become 
an  obsession,  it  was  the  same  benefactor  who  in- 
vested his  hard-earned  money  in  the  most  wonder- 
ful pair  that  the  boy  had  ever  seen,  and  surrepti- 
tiously taught  him  to  use  them  before  the  anxious 
mother  knew  anything  about  it.  But  the  crowning 
day  among  all  the  many  that  these  two  spent  to- 
gether was  that  upon  which  the  older  boy  taught 
the  younger  how  to  use  a  gun.  The  gun  was  a 
family  heirloom,  and  tradition  said  that  it  had 
done  duty  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  The  old  flint 
lock  had  been  removed  and  a  percussion  lock  sub- 
stituted; but  the  hammer  refused  to  stay  cocked. 
When  it  was  fired,  whatever  might  be  the  re- 
sult to  the  object  fired  at,  no  uncertainty  could 
be  felt  about  the  consequences  to  the  firer;  he 
was  kicked  certainly,  promptly,   and  vigorously. 

On  an  historic  morning  in  the  winter,  when 
the  grandfather  was  going  into  the  woods  to  chop, 
he  took  the  boy's  breath  away  by  saying,  "If  you 
want  to  go  with  me  to-day  and  take  along  the  old 
shotgun,   you   may,   possibly,   shoot   a   squirrel." 


THE  TWO  BOYS  27 

Will  he  go?  If  any  boy  reads  these  lines,  let  him 
answer.  Gun  over  shoulder,  and  heart  filled  with 
infinite  happiness,  the  boy  trudges  along  the  road, 
through  the  fields,  and  into  the  woods  on  the  hill- 
side, pouring  forth  a  steady  flow  of  talk.  When 
the  big  beech,  which  the  grandfather  is  turning 
into  fire-wood,  is  reached,  a  council  of  war  is  held. 
Directions  are  given  as  to  the  proper  way  of  hand- 
ling a  gun,  and  especially  this  one.  "  You'll  have 
to  hold  the  hammer  back  with  your  thumb,  and 
when  you  have  taken  good  aim,  let  go."  Over  and 
over  again  it  is  impressed  upon  the  boy  that  under 
no  circumstances  is  he  to  point  the  muzzle  of  the 
gun  toward  him. 

While  instructions  are  going  on,  a  harsh  call 
sounds  from  among  the  distant  trees.  The  boy 
does  not  need  to  be  told  that  it  is  the  cry  of  the 
grey-squirrel,  and  with  all  the  speed  that  caution 
will  permit  he  hurries  in  the  direction  of  the  hidden 
challenger.  Every  now  and  then  he  stops  to  await 
a  renewal  of  the  cry,  and  then  on  again.  Now 
the  call  is  very  near,  almost  directly  overhead. 
Evidently  it  comes  from  somewhere  high  up  in  that 
great  maple.  For  moments  that  seem  hours  he 
peers  here  and  there  among  the  leafless  branches. 
At  last  the  flirt  of  a  grey  tail  catches  his  eye,  and 
there,  stretched  along  a  limb  near  the  top  of  the 
trees,  lies  the  quarry.  Up  goes  the  long-barrelled 
gun,  but  the  muzzle  refuses  to  hold  still.  It  de- 
scribes circles  and  rectangles  and  zigzags,  but  per- 


28  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

sistently  avoids  the  squirrel.  Possibly  it  is  too 
heavy  for  the  slight  muscles.  Certainly  the  boy's 
heart  is  beating  a  tattoo,  and  a  severe  attack  of 
"  squirrel  fever  "  has  him  in  its  grip.  Just  as  de- 
spair is  completely  overwhelming  the  lad,  he  sees  a 
big  log  near  by,  and  loses  no  time  in  getting  behind 
it,  with  the  gun  resting  upon  it  and  pointing  toward 
the  tree-top.  With  this  rest  it  is  possible  to  keep 
the  contraptious  old  gun  still  for  a  minute.  Care- 
fully he  pulls  back  the  hammer,  takes  a  long  sight 
over  the  barrel,  and  lets  go.  Have  the  heavens 
fallen  and  has  the  world  come  to  an  end?  The 
gun  bellows,  and  the  boy  turns  a  back-somersault 
in  the  snow,  vaguely  fancying  that  the  entire  uni- 
verse has  struck  him.  The  squirrel  is  forgotten 
for  a  moment  in  the  surprise  caused  by  the  back- 
action  of  the  gun.  But  it  is  only  for  a  moment, 
and  then  digging  the  snow  out  of  his  eyes,  the  boy 
peers  anxiously  up  at  the  limb  just  occupied  by  the 
squirrel.  It  is  empty.  Has  he  missed  him  ?  Just 
when  humiliation  begins  to  creep  into  his  heart  he 
sees  a  grey  heap  on  the  snow,  and  sorrow  turns  to 
joy. 

With  gun  over  his  shoulder  and  the  squirrel  hid- 
den behind  him,  he  takes  the  back  trail,  and  soon 
rejoins  the  chopper.  "  I  heard  the  gun  go  off," 
says  the  old  boy.  "  What  did  you  shoot  at  ?  "  "A 
grey  squirrel,"  is  the  answer.  "  Missed  him, 
eh?  "  This  is  the  moment  of  supreme  happiness, 
as  the  concealed  game  is  brought  to  the  front  and 


THE  TWO  BOYS  29 

the  boy  cries,  "  Missed  him,  did  I  ?  What  do  you 
think  of  that?"  What  amazement,  simulated  or 
real,  appears  on  the  older  face !  His  surprise  even 
surpasses  the  boy's  expectation.  "  Well !  Well ! 
If  that  isn't  a  big  one,  and  you  killed  him  all  by 
yourself!  I'll  take  his  hide  off  when  we  get  home 
and  you  shall  have  him  for  supper." 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  some  dear  people, 
if  they  have  the  patience  to  read  thus  far,  will  lay 
down  the  book  in  disgust,  saying,  "  Cruel !  Cruel ! 
Boys  should  be  taught  never  to  take  life  unneces- 
sarily." The  writer  accepts  their  censure  with  all 
meekness,  and  assures  them  of  his  hearty  sympa- 
thy. But  he  is  writing  of  the  boy  in  the  open,  the 
out-of-doors  boy,  the  real  boy,  not  of  a  becurled 
and  anaemic  male  child,  coddled  and  restrained  and 
tutored  until  he  is  no  more  than  a  little  manikin. 
And  writing  of  the  real  boy  as  he  has  been,  is,  and 
evermore  will  be,  it  must  be  set  down  in  all  honesty 
that  he  loves  the  hunt. 

But  we  have  wandered  a  long  way  from  that 
lowery  day  when  grandfather  said,  "  Boy,  I  can't 
work  in  the  hay-field  today;  what  do  you  say  to 
going  over  to  the  river  fishing?  "  Now  the  boy  had 
spent  innumerable  hours  on  the  creek  that  flowed 
past  the  old  farm-house,  and  had  sought  acquaint- 
ance with  the  bull-heads  and  horndace  and  eels  for 
a  mile  in  either  direction,  but  the  river  he  had  fished 
only  in  his  dreams.  He  had  seen  huge  pickerel 
and  giant  perch  which  neighbours  had  exhibited  as 


30  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

spoils  from  this  wonderful  stream,  and  in  night 
visions  he  had  walked  along  its  banks  and  pulled 
cut  fish  of  enormous  size  and  brilliant  colouring. 
Now  his  dreams  were  to  come  true. 

In  the  same  valley  with  the  river,  and  before  it 
was  reached,  was  the  canal.  Just  below  a  lock, 
where  the  water  looked  to  be  infinitely  deep  to  the 
boy,  the  grandfather  stopped  and  said,  "  We  will 
try  it  here  for  a  while."  Nothing  happened  except 
that  after  feeling  a  tug  at  his  line  the  boy  pulled 
it  in  minus  a  hook.  "  Probably  a  turtle,"  explains 
the  elder :  "  Let's  go  on  to  the  river."  A  quarter 
of  a  mile  farther  on  and  the  shining  river  is 
reached,  just  where  a  dam  had  been  many  years 
before.  Some  of  the  logs  remained,  reaching  out 
over  the  water,  and  upon  these  the  two  boys  seated 
themselves  and  began  to  fish.  Memory  has  failed 
to  record  all  the  incidents  of  that  eventful  day,  but 
it  has  engraved  the  picture  of  the  long  string  of 
fish  which  they  carried  home  that  night.  The 
record  is  probably  not  any  more  accurate  than  some 
of  which  we  read  now-a-days,  for  it  declares  that 
this  string  was  something  over  six  feet  long,  and 
weighed  at  least  a  thousand  pounds ! 

One  experience  of  that  day  will  not  allow  itself 
to  be  forgotten.  The  boy  hooked  a  fish  that  put  up 
an  exceptionally  vigorous  fight,  but  was  finally 
brought  in.  After  it  had  been  unhooked  and  was 
being  exultantly  inspected  by  the  younger  and 
exhibited  for  the  admiration  of  the  older  boy,  it 


THE  TWO  BOYS  31 

gave  a  sudden  wriggle,  slipped  through  the  hands 
of  its  captor,  and  fell  back  into  the  river.  Woe  of 
woes!  For  the  time,  life  was  not  worth  living. 
The  biggest  fish  he  had  ever  caught  had  gotten 
away!  In  spite  of  the  most  heroic  efforts  his  chin 
began  to  quiver  and  then  came  a  burst  of  tears. 
"  Never  mind,"  said  the  older  boy,  "  you'll  catch 
another  just  as  good." 

That  day  and  that  particular  event  came  back 
with  startling  distinctness  more  than  thirty  years 
later,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  far-famed  Nepigon. 
The  boy  had  long  since  come  to  be  a  man,  and  was 
camped  with  two  congenial  friends  at  the  lower 
end  of  "  Pine  Portage."  There  had  been  long 
days  of  ideal  trout-fishing  and  nights  filled  with 
refreshing  sleep.  One  day  an  old  man — ap- 
parently near  to  the  Psalmist's  limit  of  years — with 
his  son  in  the  prime  of  life,  came  up  the  river  with 
their  Indian  guides  and  stopped  for  a  few  hours  to 
try  the  Pine  Portage  pool.  While  the  younger 
man  fished  from  the  canoe,  the  father  stood  upon 
a  rock  that  jutted  out  into  the  river  and  began 
casting.  It  was  not  long  before  he  hooked  a  fish 
which  gave  every  indication  of  being  a  big  one. 
The  old  man  fought  him  well.  The  son  stopped  in 
his  casting  to  look  on,  and  the  campers  came  down 
to  the  shore  to  watch  the  battle.  Out  of  the  depths 
the  gallant  fish  flung  himself  clear  of  the  water, 
and  then  all  saw  that  he  was  of  unusual  size.     The 


32  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

son  hastened  to  the  shore  and  offered  to  take  the 
rod  and  finish  the  contest,  but  the  old  man  refused. 
A  half-hour  passed,  and  then  the  tired  fish  began  to 
show  signs  of  yielding  and  the  fisherman  already 
saw  himself  the  proud  captor  of  a  six-pound  trout, 
when — it  was  all  over.  Was  there  a  flaw  in  the 
line?  Had  the  aged  sportsman  inadvertently 
dropped  the  tip  of  his  rod  until  the  fish  had  a 
straight-away  pull  upon  the  reel  ?  No  matter  what 
the  cause,  the  line  had  parted  under  the  last  surge 
of  the  fish,  and  he  was  lost.  For  a  moment  the  old 
face  worked  strangely,  and  then  down  went  the 
white  head,  face  in  his  hands,  and  we  saw  the  shak- 
ing body  as  he  sobbed  out  his  disappointment. 
Then  the  son  laid  his  hand  upon  the  senior's 
shoulder  and  we  heard  him  say,  "  Never  mind, 
father,  you'll  catch  another  just  as  good."  Ten 
and  eighty  are  not  far  apart  when  we  go  fishing. 


THE 

TOWN-MEETING 

AT 

BLUE  ROCK  POOL 


-*j 


.'VYI 

c 


As  for  my  chosen  pursuit  of 
angling,  {which  I  follow  with  dili- 
gence zvhen  not  interrupted  by  less 
important  concerns),  I  rejoice  with 
every  true  fisherman  that  it  has  a 
greeting  of  its  own,  and  of  a  most 
honourable  antiquity.  There  is  no 
record  of  its  origin.  But  it  is  quite 
certain  that  since  the  days  of  the 
Flood  .  .  .  two  honest  and  good- 
natured  anglers  have  never  met  each 
other  by  the  way,  without  crying  out, 
"What  luck?" — Henry  Van  Dyke, 
Fisherman's  Luck. 


Ill 

THE   TOWN-MEETING    AT    BLUE    ROCK 
POOL 

IDN'T  know  that  fish  held  town- 
meetings  ?  That  shows  how  your 
education  has  been  neglected.  A 
town-meeting  is  an  assembly;  fish 
assemble;  therefore,  fish  hold 
town-meetings.  Isn't  that  con- 
clusive ?  But  the  fact  is  one  of  experience  as  well 
as  of  logical  deduction.  It  can  be  "  mediated  "  by 
the  faith  of  every  disciple  of  the  immortal  Izaak. 
This  is  the  unadorned  and  veracious  account  of 
one  of  these  piscatorial  gatherings,  held  on  an 
August  day  in  Caine  River,  New  Brunswick, 
seventeen  miles  from  the  nearest  house.  They  had 
been  gathering  for  days.  Prominent  citizens  were 
there  from  Big  Rock,  five  miles  down  the  river,  and 
almost  every  inhabitant  of  the  Forks,  three  miles  up 
stream,  had  answered  to  roll-call.     A  large  number 

35 


36  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

of  youngsters  who  had  lately  taken  up  their  abode 
in  Blue  Rock  Brook  seemed  to  think  that  this  was 
some  sort  of  circus,  and  had  to  be  nipped  into  order 
by  their  more  sedate  seniors. 

The  main  business  on  hand  was  to  provide  for 
the  "  summer  schools  "  which  had  won  a  deserved 
reputation  for  excellence  long  before  the  Uni- 
versity of  Chicago  opened  its  doors.  It  was  cus- 
tomary, also,  to  elect  a  path-master  at  this  time, 
that  the  highways  might  be  looked  after  and  kept 
free  from  grass.  The  Hon.  S.  Maximus  Fontaine, 
political  boss  of  Troutopolis,  had  things  well  in 
hand,  and  it  was  generally  admitted  that  his  slate 
would  go  through  without  a  hitch. 

No  wonder  that  the  beauty-loving  trout  came 
from  far  and  from  near  to  this  place  of  assembly. 
If  the  truth  must  be  told  a  majority  cared  less 
about  the  election  than  they  did  for  the  climate. 
Search  the  country  over  and  you  could  not  find  a 
more  charming  spot.  Just  where  a  great  clump  of 
white  birches  made  a  whispering  place  for  the 
wind,  Blue  Rock  Brook  came  gurgling  down  into 
the  river.  Its  source  was  a  great  spring  back 
among  the  hills,  and  all  along  its  course  other 
springs  gave  of  their  best  to  keep  its  waters  cool 
and  sweet.  From  start  to  finish  it  was  uncon- 
taminated.  When,  at  last,  it  found  the  river,  it 
rested  for  a  little  in  a  big,  clear  pool,  before  giving 
of  its  freshness  to  the  warmer  waters  of  the  larger 
stream.     Just  here,  with  clean  gravel  underneath 


THE  TOWN-MEETING  37 

and  the  nodding  birches  casting  their  shadows 
overhead,  enswathed  in  a  delicious  coolness  that 
defied  the  heat  of  the  August  sun,  were  gathered 
the  clans  on  the  day  of  which  we  write.  It  was 
here  that  they  were  deceived,  betrayed,  undone  by 
a  stony-hearted  Preacher  who  had  journeyed  far 
to  be  present  at  this  meeting.  But  that  suggests 
backing  up  and  starting  over  again  in  order  to  get 
the  Preacher  to  this  lonely  spot. 

How  did  he  find  the  town-meeting?  That  is  a 
long  story  and  must  be  compressed  if  told  at  all. 
It  would  take  more  time  than  we  have  at  our  com- 
mand to  describe  the  mighty  struggle  through 
which  the  Preacher  passed  in  wrenching  himself 
away  from  the  seductive  stockyards'  odours  of  Chi- 
cago. He  succeeded,  however,  and  went  meander- 
ing through  New  York  State  and  Massachusetts, 
finally  taking  passage  on  a  venerable  tub  that  crawls 
— in  fair  weather — between  Boston  and  Yarmouth. 
There  was  a  vague  idea  haunting  the  ministerial 
mind  that  he  wanted  to  see  the  Evangeline  country ; 
but  that  infant  persuasion  died  suddenly  in  Digby. 
If  any  American  tourist  wants  to  see  Nova  Scotia 
let  him  keep  away  from  Digby  or  put  it  last  on  his 
list.  For  fascination  it  discounts  the  Lorelei.  All 
right-minded  people  (that  means  those  who  love  to 
sail  and  fish)  are  charmed  with  this  little  town. 

If  we  had  not  set  out  to  tell  how  the  Preacher 
broke  up  that  Blue  Rock  town-meeting,  we  should 
stop  right  here  and  relate  one  or  two  mild  stories 


38  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

about  the  fishing  at  Digby.  Did  you  ever  catch 
pollock  that  were  run  by  ninety-horse-power  steam 
engines?  Pollock  that  would  strike  so  hard  that 
they  dislocated  the  fisherman's  shoulders  when  he 
tried  to  check  them  up  a  bit  ?  Did  you  ever  catch 
a  codfish  weighing  two  hundred  and  seventy 
pounds  ?  Now  this  is  not  about  pollock  or  codfish, 
and  it  is  just  possible  that  one  figure  ought  to  be 
taken  off  the  weight  of  that  cod.  Do  not  ask  that 
we  tell  about  the  day's  fishing  on  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
for  we  must  not  do  it.  We  "  could  a  tale  unfold," 
but  it  shall  not  be  unfolded  here  lest  we  never  get 
to  that  town-meeting. 

It  was  at  the  supper  table  in  a  Fredericton  hotel 
that  the  existence  of  Blue  Rock  Pool  first  became 
known  to  the  Preacher.  He  had  opened  his  heart 
to  the  whole  company  and  begged  of  them  infor- 
mation concerning  the  trout  fishing  in  that  locality. 
One  guest  said  that  by  driving  out  to  the  northeast 
four  miles  trout  could  be  gotten  in  limited  numbers 
and  of  small  proportions.  Another  suggested  go- 
ing up  the  St.  John's  River  some  ten  miles.  There 
was  much  talk  of  what  had  been  done  in  time  past, 
and  much  regret  expressed  that  the  Preacher  had 
not  come  in  June  or  waited  until  later.  The  time 
was  very  unfavourable — it  always  is.  Under  such 
consolation  the  mercury  in  the  ministerial  ther- 
mometer sank  out  of  sight.  When  supper  was 
over  and  the  Preacher  was  leaving  the  table,  a  small 
man  who  had  not  said  a  word  during  the  entire 


THE  TOWN-MEETING  39 

meal  took  the  discouraged  dominie  to  one  side  and 
said: 

"  If  you  are  willing  to  make  a  trip  of  some  sixty 
or  seventy  miles  and  camp  out  one  night,  I  can  tell 
you  of  a  place  where  you  can  get  some  trout." 

"  But,"  said  the  Preacher,  "  I  have  no  tent  or 
blankets  or  duffle  of  any  kind." 

"  I'll  see  to  all  that,"  replied  the  little  man;  "  I 
have  everything  that  you  will  need,  and  it  is  yours 
to  use." 

What  a  lot  of  good  fellows  there  are  in  the 
world,  and  the  majority  of  them  love  to  fish. 
Here  was  a  man  putting  his  precious  outfit  at  the 
disposal  of  an  utter  stranger,  with  no  thought  of 
reward  or  desire  for  it,  simply  to  show  a  kindness 
to  a  brother  devotee  of  the  gentle  art.  And  the 
little  man  proved  to  be  a  tailor.  Now  it  has  been 
said  that  it  takes  nine  tailors  to  make  a  man;  but 
you  could  have  made  nine  average  men  out  of  that 
tailor  and  there  would  have  been  material  left  to 
patch  the  rest  of  the  race.  He  gave  the  Preacher 
the  name  of  a  man  who  could  be  secured  as  a  guide, 
helped  him  make  out  a  list  of  eatables,  brought  over 
his  caribou  blanket,  tent,  dishes,  etc.,  and  bright 
and  early  the  next  morning  the  train  going  north 
carried  a  passenger  bound  for  Blue  Rock  Pool. 

Did  you  ever  notice  with  what  reluctance  the 
average  vehicle  of  transportation  moves  when  it 
has  a  fisherman  on  board?  If  you  use  a  horse, 
he'll  go  to  sleep;  an  auto  is  sure  to  throw  a  fit,  and 


40  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

a  railway  train  almost  invariably  stops  and  goes 
backward  for  a  good  share  of  the  time.  It  looks 
as  if  there  existed  some  sort  of  a  "  combine  "  to 
prevent  the  fisherman  from  making  connections 
with  the  place  where  he  knows  bliss  is  waiting  for 
him.  It  took  the  train  six  hours  to  go  fifty  miles ! 
They  called  it  an  "accommodation";  but  by  the 
way  that  fisherman  growled  you  could  see  that  he 
did  not  realize  that  he  was  being  accommodated. 
He  did  finally  get  to  Doaktown,  where  his  guide 
lived,  and  found  the  aforesaid  gentleman  waiting 
for  him  at  the  station  in  response  to  a  telegram 
sent  the  night  before.  His  name  was  George — at 
least  it  ought  to  have  been — and  he  was  a  clean- 
looking,  husky  fellow  about  thirty-five  years  of 
age.  Close  at  hand  was  Bucephalus  adjusted  to  a 
buckboard.  (Bucephalus  was  the  prancing  steed 
which  had  consented  to  haul  us  to  Caine  River.) 
He  was  not  handsome  except  in  behaviour;  in  that 
he  was  a  beauty.  Habakkuk  had  evidently  not 
seen  Bucephalus  when  he  wrote :  "  Their  horses  are 
swifter  than  the  leopard."  The  duffle  was  piled  on 
behind  the  seat,  a  bag  of  oats  was  given  the  place  of 
honour  on  top  of  the  duffle,  and  Bucephalus,  gently 
and  with  infinite  caution,  began  to  move.  A  sense 
of  security  took  possession  of  the  Preacher's  soul 
with  the  first  step  that  that  horse  took.  There  was 
something  dignified  and  assuring  about  his  move- 
ments that  left  the  mind  absolutely  free  to  reflect 
upon  the  beauties  of  nature,  untroubled  by  any 


THE  TOWN-MEETING  41 

fear  of  personal  injury.  About  a  mile  out  of 
Doaktown  on  the  road  to  Caine  River  was  a  little 
hill.  Bravely  Bucephalus  tackled  it,  stopping  not 
more  than  twice  each  rod  to  give  his  passengers 
time  to  drink  in  the  beauties  of  the  scenery.  It  was 
during  this  period  of  hill-climbing,  with  its  attend- 
ant spaces  of  quiet,  that  George  began  his  wary 
approach  towards  getting  acquainted  with  the 
Preacher. 

George :  "  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

Preacher :  "  Chicago." 

George :  "  What  might  your  business  be  ?  " 

Preacher :  "  I'm  a  Preacher." 

Thereupon  George's  lower  jaw  dropped  until  it 
almost  seemed  to  rest  upon  the  dashboard,  while  he 
rolled  a  skeptical  eye  towards  his  seat-mate. 
Being  convinced  after  prolonged  scrutiny  that  the 
truth  had  been  told,  he  relapsed  into  silence,  broken 
at  last  by  the  remark,  "  I'll  bet  you  ain't  a  Baptist 
Preacher." 

When  his  bet  was  promptly  taken,  he  brought 
the  interview  to  a  close  by  saying,  "  You  must  git 
a  mighty  sight  more  pay  than  our  preacher  or 
you'd  never  got  so  far  from  home." 

For  some  time  as  Bucephalus  jogged  along 
through  the  woods  George  was  evidently  depressed. 
He  may  have  been  reflecting  upon  certain  emphatic 
remarks  addressed  to  Bucephalus  earlier  in  the 
journey,  or,  possibly,  he  was  wondering  how  he 
could  sneak  out  of  his  job.     It  was  evident  that  he 


42  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

had  not  reckoned  on  piloting  a  body  of  divinity  on 
a  fishing  trip  and  was  somewhat  dubious  as  to  the 
prospect. 

The  road  ended  in  Caine  River,  and  for  the  five 
miles  farther  to  Blue  Rock  Pool  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  take  to  the  bed  of  the  stream.  It  re- 
minded one  of  driving  over  the  cobble-stone  pave- 
ments of  Albany,  New  York,  only  not  quite  so 
much  so.  The  Swedish  movement  which  under- 
takes to  joggle  you  all  over  is  not  in  it  for  efficiency 
with  such  a  ride.  If  there  is  any  part  of  the  anat- 
omy that  is  unmoved  by  this  wiggle  and  joggle  it 
must  be  in  the  domain  of  the  "  subliminal  self." 
When  within  sight  of  the  destination  it  was  found 
that  the  Preacher's  suit-case,  in  which  he  had  a 
change  of  underclothing,  reel,  flies,  etc.,  had  be- 
come discouraged  and  dropped  off.  It  was  found 
a  mile  down  stream,  resting  against  a  rock,  with 
not  a  thing  wet.  "  I'll  set  up  the  tent  and  git  sup- 
per while  you  go  after  'em,"  said  George,  an  ar- 
rangement to  which  the  Preacher  promptly  agreed. 
The  bamboo  rod  was  put  together,  leader  and  flies 
selected,  and,  just  as  the  sun  was  touching  the  tree- 
tops  on  the  west  bank  of  the  river,  the  Preacher  in- 
truded upon  the  town-meeting.  Hon.  S.  Maximus 
Fontaine  had  just  concluded  a  deal  by  which  every- 
thing was  to  go  his  way,  when  a  strange  and  gaudy 
insect  alighted  upon  the  surface  of  the  pool  and 
went  wiggling  toward  the  shore.  There  was  a 
wild  and  unseemly  scramble,  but  the  honourable 


THE  TOWN-MEETING  43 

wire-puller  had  his  own  notions  of  precedence  and, 
cuffing  some  of  the  smaller  fry  out  of  his  way  and 
frightening  off  others  by  the  glare  of  his  eye,  he 
proceeded  to  make  that  tid-bit  his  own.  No  sooner 
had  he  closed  his  jaws  upon  the  coveted  dainty  than 
he  was  sorry,  for  there  was  evidently  "  a  string  to 
it "  and  that  string  kept  steadily  tugging  at  his 
mouth.  Much  as  he  believed  in  "  pulls  "  he  did  not 
enjoy  this  one,  and  tried  to  part  with  it.  He  ca- 
vorted about  among  his  astonished  fellow-towns- 
men, flung  himself  out  of  the  water,  darted  towards 
a  well-known  root  that  had  succoured  him  once  be- 
fore in  a  like  experience,  but  still  that  firm  persua- 
sion at  work  upon  his  mouth  would  not  let  up  and, 
at  last,  he  gave  ground  and  was  guided  out  into  the 
river. 

Out  in  the  stream,  thirty  or  forty  feet  from  the 
pool,  stood  the  Preacher  engineering  this  perform- 
ance. To  say  that  he  was  nervous  is  a  mild  state- 
ment. He  was  scared.  It  had  occurred  to  him 
just  after  that  battle  had  begun  that  his  landing  net 
was  at  the  camp,  and  here  was  a  big,  big  trout  to  be 
taken  care  of.  A  six-ounce  bamboo  rod  does  not 
lend  itself  to  the  derrick  act  by  which  you  lift  the 
fish  out  of  the  water  by  main  force  and  throw  him 
over  your  head,  landing  him  some  eighty  rods 
away.  It  would  not  do  to  try  tiring  out  the  old 
warrior  in  the  pool,  for  by  the  time  that  was  ac- 
complished all  of  his  comrades  would  be  in  a  state 
of  mind  that  would  effectually  prevent  any  further 


44  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

levy  upon  them.  So  out  in  the  river  that  fish  must 
come  while  the  fisherman  takes  his  chances.  It 
was  a  long,  hard  fight,  carried  on  a  good  part  of 
the  time  in  swift  water  where  the  chances  for  the 
fish's  escape  were  excellent;  but  at  last,  tired  out 
and  helpless,  he  was  led  into  the  still  and  shallow 
water  near  the  shore.  There,  just  as  the  fisherman 
was  reaching  down  for  him,  the  old  politician  gave 
a  last  lunge  that  snapped  the  snood,  and  he  was 
free;  but  before  he  could  gather  strength  to  swim 
away  the  Preacher  lay  down  on  him,  and  the  days 
of  Hon.  S.  Maximus  Fontaine  were  numbered. 

A  new  fly  was  fastened  to  the  leader,  and  the  dis- 
turbed citizens  were  invited  to  interview  it.  A 
half-dozen,  so  small  that  they  did  not  know  any 
better,  were  gathered  in  by  the  Preacher  in  one- 
two-three  order.  Then  came  a  tug  that  meant 
business,  and  the  Preacher  began  kicking  himself 
for  forgetting  that  landing  net.  It  seems  that  a 
big  politician  from  the  Miramichi  had  come  up  to 
see  how  Hon.  S.  Maximus  managed  things,  and  as 
he  had  seen  his  friend  tackle  that  first  strange  in- 
sect and  disappear,  he  concluded  that  this  was  the 
proper  thing  to  do.  He  followed  his  friend  to  the 
basket  of  the  Preacher,  but  not  until  he  had  in- 
dulged in  some  contortions  that  nearly  gave  the 
sportsman  nervous  prostration. 

By  this  time  the  shadows  had  thickened  and 
George  was  yelling:  "Supper's  ready."  He  was 
mistaken.     It  took  about  fifteen  minutes  to  dress 


THE  TOWN-MEETING  45 

and  fry  those  half-dozen  small  trout — not  one 
under  half  a  pound — and  while  they  were  cooking 
the  Preacher  weighed  his  prizes.  Hon.  S.  Maxi- 
mus  came  within  two  ounces,  and  his  friend  within 
four  ounces  of  four  pounds.  Did  you  ever  take  a 
four-pound  trout,  or  even  a  three-pounder,  on  a 
light  rod?  Then  you  know  how  self-satisfied  that 
Preacher  was. 

The  tent  had  been  pitched  on  a  little  plateau  some 
fifteen  feet  above  the  river.  It  was  nine  o'clock 
when  supper  was  finished  and  the  dishes  washed, 
horse  picketed  and  everything  made  ready  for  the 
night.  The  caribou  skin  was  laid  on  the  bed  of 
boughs,  the  blankets  made  ready  for  cover,  and 
George  and  the  Preacher  "  retired."  The  camp- 
fire  shone  out  against  the  dark  background  of  the 
wooded  hills,  the  river  sung  a  lullaby,  and  George 
told  a  story  about  a  moose  that  he  had  killed  the 
previous  winter  not  more  than  forty  rods  from  the 
spot  where  they  were  lying,  and — when  the  Preach- 
er waked  he  was  freezing.  The  fire  had  gone  out, 
it  was  nearly  daybreak,  and  those  blankets  seemed 
made  of  gauze.  He  had  no  inordinate  affection 
for  George  under  normal  conditions,  but  now  he 
rolled  over  and  clasped  him  to  his  heart.  George 
seemed  to  have  lost  his  fear  of  the  Preacher, 
and  for  the  remainder  of  the  night  each  tried 
to  use  the  other  as  a  stove.  Each  failed  of 
absolute  success. 

It  is  evident  that  the  teller  of  this  story  has  vio- 


46  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

lated  one  of  the  fundamental  rules  of  homiletics, 
and  made  his  porch  too  large  for  the  house.  There 
remains  a  whole  forenoon  of  fishing  to  be  dis- 
posed of  and  no  time  to  tell  about  it.  But  if  we 
had  unlimited  space  at  our  command,  who  could  fit- 
tingly describe  even  an  hour  of  successful  dalliance 
with  the  festive  trout? 

There  were  no  more  of  the  size  of  the  political 
boss  and  his  friend ;  but  how  they  came !  Some- 
thing over  fifty  trout  preferred  the  Preacher  to  the 
town-meeting,  and  when  noon  came  that  meeting 
had  adjourned  sine  die — especially  die.  Some 
were  eaten  for  dinner,  some  were  on  the  table  at  the 
Doaktown  hotel  that  night,  George  had  what  he 
wanted,  and  twenty-one  went  back  with  the  proud 
Preacher  to  Fredericton  the  next  morning. 


IN  THE 
NORTH  WOODS 


This  simple  fact,  so  glad  in  itself, 
so  obvious  to  one  who  keeps  his 
eyes  open  in  Nature's  world,  is  men- 
tioned here  by  way  of  invitation — 
to  assure  the  reader  if  he  but  enter 
this  School  of  the  Woods,  he  will 
see  little  of  that  which  made  his 
heart  ache  in  his  own  sad  world; 
no  tragedies  or  footlight  effects  of 
woes  or  struggles  but  rather  a 
wholesome,  cheerful  life  to  make 
one  glad  and  send  him  back  to  his 
own  school  with  deeper  wisdom  and 
renewed  courage. — William  J. 
Long,  School  of  the  Woods. 


IV 
IN  THE  NORTH  WOODS 


STOP  a  minute  !*" 
It  was  the  frightful  jolt  as  one 
ggJU^gSI    of  the  wheels  of  the  wagon  struck 
/plj^piste^^l     a  high  boulder  and  then  went  down 
to  the  hub  in  a  mud-hole  that 
called  forth  this  plaintive  request. 
"Ill  get  out  and  walk!" 

The  cry  came  from  one,  but  we  made  it  unani- 
mous with  great  alacrity.  We  were  making  our 
way  in  a  lumber  wagon  from  the  railway  station 
to  Otter  Lake.  The  driver  said  it  was  only  ten 
miles  to  our  destination,  and  for  the  first  hour  we 
were  comparatively  hilarious;  then  we  struck  the 
woods  and  trouble  began.  It  was  growing  dark, 
and  stumps  and  stones  and  sink-holes  could  not  be 
seen  and  so  were  taken  as  they  came.  The  wagon 
rose  upon  some  obstruction  to  come  down  with  a 
jar  that  seemed  to  loosen  every  joint  in  the  body. 

49 


50  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

A  little  of  this  was  quite  enough,  and  the  party 
made  the  last  part  of  the  trip  on  foot,  tripping  and 
stumbling  through  the  darkness  until,  after  what 
seemed  an  interminable  time,  the  lights  of  the 
cabin  flashed  out  through  the  trees.  We  were  in 
no  condition  to  be  curious  as  to  our  surroundings 
that  night  and,  after  a  supper  of  fried  trout,  were 
glad  to  tumble  into  bed.  The  remark  of  one  of  the 
boys  of  the  family  that  the  "  old  man  "  was  away, 
did  not  seem  to  possess  much  significance  until 
later  on  when  we  learned  that  he  was  serving  time 
in  the  county  jail  for  shooting  deer  out  of  season. 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  next  morning  we  saw  our 
surroundings  clearly  for  the  first  time.  A  little 
clearing  of  a  couple  of  acres  on  the  lake  shore,  a 
rough  log  cabin  with  a  rougher  barn,  a  beautiful 
little  lake  guarded  on  the  east  and  south  by  high 
hills  timbered  to  their  summits, — what  more  could 
the  seeker  after  rest  and  recreation  ask?  Otter 
Lake  is  too  small  to  be  entitled  to  a  place  on  the 
average  map  of  New  York,  but  it  lies  north  of  the 
Mohawk  River  and  east  of  the  railway  running 
from  Utica  to  Clayton.  It  is  not  far  enough  east 
to  be  considered  as  in  the  Adirondacks,  and  the  sec- 
tion is  familiarly  known  as  the  "  North  Woods." 
An  alternative  term  is  "John  Brown's  Tract,"  as 
the  hero  of  Ossawatomie  at  one  time  owned  hun- 
dreds, if  not  thousands  of  acres  of  land  in  this  lo- 
cality, and  cherished  ambitious  plans  for  a  colony. 

The  party  was  made  up  of  the  Doctor,  the  Hard- 


IN  THE  NORTH  WOODS  51 

ware  Man,  Frank,  Jim,  the  Boy  and  the  Preacher. 
Poor  Jim!  He  could  ill  afford  the  expense  of  the 
outing,  but  he  "  felt  all  played  out,"  as  he  expressed 
it,  and  the  physician  had  ordered  him  from  behind 
the  counter  to  the  woods.  Every  day  he  cheerfully 
assured  us  that  he  was  feeling  better,  and  every  day 
he  grew  thinner  and  his  breathing  more  difficult. 
He  was  in  the  beginning  of  a  fight  which  was  to  go 
on  for  a  couple  of  years  longer;  then  he  gave  up  the 
battle  and  lay  down  to  rest. 

We  had  come  prepared  to  camp  out,  and  imme- 
diate preparations  were  made  for  realizing  this 
ambition.  The  guide  proposed  Independence  River 
as  a  favourable  point  and,  as  we  knew  nothing  of 
that  or  any  other  part  of  the  country,  we  acted 
upon  his  suggestion,  especially  as  he  had  told  mar- 
vellous tales  of  the  Independence  River  trout.  It 
was  not  a  long  or  hard  tramp  to  the  place  where 
we  struck  the  river  and  pitched  the  tent.  The  sun 
was  shining,  the  air  was  soft  and  warm,  and  the 
Hardware  Man  was  running  over  with  enthusiasm. 
As  we  made  ready  for  the  night,  with  a  big  fire 
blazing  in  front  of  the  open  tent,  he  remarked, 
"  I've  looked  forward  to  this  hour  from  my  boy- 
hood." Wrhereas  the  more  experienced  members 
of  the  party  pulled  on  extra  sweaters  for  the  night, 
the  Hardware  Man  proceeded  to  disrobe  as  if  he 
were  in  his  house  in  Harlem.  When  some  one 
suggested  that  he  might  feel  the  need  of  this  cloth- 
ing before  morning,  he  exhibited  his  sleeping  bag 


52  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

made  of  blankets  and  assured  us  that  this  would  be 
quite  sufficient.  Just  before  dawn  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  the  camp-fire  had  gone  out  and  a  pene- 
trating chill  was  in  the  air,  some  of  the  party  were 
awakened  by  the  movements  of  the  Hardware 
Man.  He  crawled  out  of  his  sleeping  bag,  arrayed 
himself  in  his  discarded  garments,  and  when  asked 
what  was  the  trouble  declared,  "  I'm  freezing. 
One  night  of  this  is  more  than  enough.  My  am- 
bition is  satisfied." 

That  day  was  devoted  to  the  alleged  trout  of  In- 
dependence River.  From  what  the  guide  had  told 
us  we  had  supposed  that  two-pounders  were 
impatiently  waiting  to  be  caught.  We  fished  all 
day  and  averaged  half  a  trout  apiece.  Six  ardent 
fishermen  managed  to  capture  three  trout,  not  all 
of  which  would  weigh  two  pounds.  Evidently 
something  was  wrong.  Fortunately,  explanations 
abound  when  fish  refuse  to  bite.  It  is  too  early  or 
too  late  in  the  season.  We  haven't  the  proper  bait. 
It  is  too  warm  or  too  cold.  They  were  taking 
everything  offered  last  week,  or  they  will  begin  bit- 
ing next  week.  This  time  the  fish  had  left  the 
stream  and  were  gathered  on  the  "  spring-holes," 
so  the  guide  assures  us,  and  we  do  not  question  his 
pronunciamento.  The  trouble  was  that  we 
couldn't  find  any  spring-holes.  One  thing  the 
Preacher  did  find  for  which  he  was  not  looking; 
namely,  a  narrow  escape  from  being  shot.  He  had 
made  a  short  cut  through  the  underbrush  to  strike 


IN  THE  NORTH  WOODS  53 

the  river  higher  up,  and  as  he  came  out  upon  the 
border  of  the  stream  found  himself  looking  into 
the  muzzle  of  a  gun.  A  party  coming  down  the 
river  in  a  boat  had  heard  the  crashing  in  the  woods 
and,  of  course,  thought  of  deer.  All  that  saved 
the  Preacher  was  the  fact  that  the  man  with  the  gun 
did  not  belong  to  that  group  of  invincible  idiots 
who  shoot  at  a  noise  or  at  an  unidentified  moving 
object.  A  week  later,  in  a  camp  three  miles  away, 
a  young  man  was  shot  and  instantly  killed  by  his 
camp-mate  who  saw  something  moving  in  the 
bushes  and  fired  on  the  chance  of  its  being  a  deer. 
At  the  close  of  the  day  the  Hardware  Man  pre- 
sented numerous  and  cogent  reasons  why  we  should 
not  spend  another  night  in  camp,  and  just  before 
sundown  we  struck  the  trail  back  to  the  cabin. 

After  that  we  were  content  to  make  daily  excur- 
sions, returning  to  the  cabin  at  night.  Camp  life  is 
delightful  when  proper  provision  has  been  made 
for  comfort;  otherwise,  it  is  a  delusion  and  a  snare. 
We  had  not  outfitted  as  we  should,  and  our  guide 
either  did  not  know  how  to  make  good  our  de- 
ficiencies or  was  too  lazy  to  undertake  the  job. 
There  is  a  deal  of  poetry  about  tent-dwelling,  and 
not  infrequently  that  is  all.  It  is  possible  to  have  a 
tent  that  will  not  leak,  pitched  so  that  a  heavy  rain 
will  not  turn  your  sleeping  place  into  a  pond;  a 
bough-bed  so  constructed  that  the  boughs  do  not 
poke  you  in  the  ribs  all  night;  a  commissary  de- 
partment that  allows  some  little  variety  in  the  bill 


54  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

of  fare  and  a  cook  who  can  at  least  boil  potatoes. 
This,  we  say,  is  possible,  and  these  desirable  fea- 
tures are  sometimes  actualities.  When  they  are, 
life  is  "  one  grand,  sweet  song."  But  there  are 
worse  experiences  than  returning  after  a  day's 
tramp,  tired  and  hungry,  to  find  awaiting  you  an 
easy  chair,  a  well-cooked  meal  and  a  comfortable 
bed  under  the  shelter  of  a  roof. 

This  outing  was  in  the  days  before  "  jacking  for 
deer  "  had  become  not  only  illegal  but  entirely  un- 
ethical. The  Preacher  and  Frank,  with  the  guide, 
tramped  one  afternoon  to  a  little  lake  some  four 
miles  away  for  the  purpose  of  floating  for  deer  that 
night.  As  it  is  useless  to  go  on  such  a  quest  when 
the  moon  is  in  the  sky,  and  that  luminary  had  fixed 
upon  ten  o'clock  as  the  hour  for  retiring  that  night, 
a  fire  was  kindled  on  the  hill-side,  well  back  from 
the  water,  and  the  hunters  waited  upon  the  slow 
setting  of  the  moon.  Many  questions  of  more  or 
less  importance  were  discussed  and,  at  last,  Frank 
said  to  the  Preacher, 

14  Have  you  ever  read  '  Robert  Elsmere  '  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Preacher.  "  Why  do  you 
ask?" 

"  Well,  Pastor advised  me  not  to  read  it. 

He  said  he  had  preached  on  the  book  twice,  and 
he  had  never  read  it." 

The  Preacher  chuckled  and  then  roared,  until  the 
guide  growled,  "  You'll  scare  all  the  deer  out  of  the 
lake  and  over  the  mountain  if  you  make  so  much 


IN  THE  NORTH  WOODS  55 

noise."  Possibly  it  was  the  Preacher's  vociferous 
hilarity  that  explains  why  we  "  jacked  "  around  the 
shores  of  the  lake  that  night  for  two  hours  without 
sighting  anything  more  animated  than  a  dead 
stump.  The  Preacher  was  comparatively  young 
then  and  had  not  learned  that  the  less  we  know 
about  a  matter  the  more  unrestrained  and  cock- 
sure we  may  be  in  discussing  it. 

Not  a  few  experiences  are  more  amusing  when 
considered  in  retrospect  than  at  the  time  when  they 
are  going  forward.  When  the  guide  proposed  to 
the  Preacher  that  they  visit  a  little  lake  a  couple  of 
miles  from  the  cabin,  try  for  trout  at  sundown  and 
then  float  for  deer  when  darkness  had  fallen,  the 
proposition  was  greeted  with  applause.  Although 
the  trail  was  not  an  easy  one,  the  guide  carried  a 
canoe  on  his  shoulders  and  the  Preacher  trudged 
on  behind  with  the  guns  and  rods,  his  mind  filled 
with  alluring  visions  of  mighty  trout  and  at  least 
one  big  buck.  When  the  lake  was  reached  and  it 
came  time  to  joint  the  rods,  it  was  discovered  that 
the  reels  and  lines  had  been  forgotten.  The  fly- 
book,  with  its  gaudy  contents,  was  in  the  Preacher's 
pocket,  but  neither  of  the  two  felt  competent  to  do 
any  successful  fishing  without  a  line.  It  would  be 
dark  before  the  trip  to  camp  and  back  could  be 
made  and,  reluctantly,  the  fishing  part  of  the  trip 
was  abandoned.  That  night  there  was  no  moon  to 
compel  them  to  wait  upon  its  slow  movements,  and 
as  soon  as  darkness  had  fallen  the  "  jack  "  was 


56  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

lighted  and  the  slow  circling  of  the  lake  began. 
About  two-thirds  of  the  way  around,  the  guide 
stopped  paddling,  then  gave  the  canoe  a  little  twist 
so  that  the  bow  pointed  towards  shore,  and  the 
Preacher  felt  the  slight  shaking  of  the  canoe 
agreed  upon  as  the  signal  to  shoot.  Shoot  at 
what?     He  could  see  nothing. 

A  whisper  came  from  the  guide — "  Shoot !  " 

"  Where?  "  was  wafted  back  from  the  half-par- 
alyzed lips  of  the  Preacher. 

"  There  at  the  edge  of  the  lily-pads,  just  a  little 
to  your  left."  Did  the  Preacher  see  the  dim  out- 
line of  a  form?  He  does  not  know  to  this  day,  but 
he  shot  as  he  was  commanded.  A  mighty  snort 
answered  the  shot,  then  splashing  of  water  and 
breaking  of  limbs,  and  the  guide  announced,  "  You 
missed  him."  The  assertion  was  entirely  gratui- 
tous. In  fact,  the  Preacher  had  not  expected  to 
hit  what  he  could  not  see. 

Just  about  that  time  a  thunder-cloud  in  the  west 
became  so  threatening  that  the  guide  proposed  that 
they  go  on  shore  and  get  under  shelter.  That 
sounded  good,  but  it  was  not  just  clear  to  the  pas- 
senger where  the  shelter  was  to  be  found.  How- 
ever, the  mystery  was  solved  when  the  guide  pulled 
the  canoe  to  a  dry  spot  on  shore,  turned  it  upside 
down,  and  both  crept  under  it  as  the  first  big  drops 
of  rain  came  pelting  down.  Just  as  the  Preacher 
was  congratulating  himself  upon  their  good  for- 
tune, the  dulcet  note  of  a  mosquito  sounded  in  his 


IN  THE  NORTH  WOODS  57 

ears.  He  promptly  slapped,  and  then  kept  on  slap- 
ping. The  singer  was  the  advance  guard  of  an  in- 
numerable host.  All  of  the  tribe  between  Paul 
Smith's  and  Lowville  had  evidently  gathered  to  the 
feast.  To  make  a  bad  matter  the  worst  possible, 
the  quarters  were  exceedingly  cramped.  One 
could  not  well  roll  over  without  rolling  from  under 
the  canoe.  The  omnipresent  root  was  persistently 
punching  the  Preacher's  ribs.  To  lift  his  suffer- 
ings to  the  nth  power,  that  guide  went  to  sleep 
and  actually  snored.  It  would  have  been  a  satis- 
faction to  have  companionship  in  suffering,  but 
now  this  was  denied  him.  Was  it  only  four  hours  ? 
It  seemed  like  four  eternities  before  the  guide  de- 
cided that  they  ought  to  start  for  the  cabin.  The 
storm  had  passed,  but  every  bush  showered  quarts 
of  water  at  the  slightest  touch.  Just  where  the 
advantage  lies  in  keeping  dry  from  the  storm,  only 
to  get  soaked  to  the  skin  from  tramping  through 
miles  of  wet  underbrush,  is  not  yet  quite  clear. 
At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  cabin  was 
reached,  sans  trout,  sans  deer,  but  not  sans  mos- 
quito bites  or  a  thorough  drenching. 

What  a  day  that  was  which  the  Doctor  and  the 
Preacher  spent  on  the  East  Fork !  The  lake  is  fed 
by  two  streams,  one  flowing  in  from  the  southeast 
and  the  other  from  the  southwest.  By  a  trail  the 
eastern  branch  could  be  struck  well  up  towards  its 
source,  and  from  this  point  down  to  the  lake  fur- 
nished just  about  the  right  distance  for  a  day's  fish- 


58  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

ing.  Bright  and  early  the  start  was  made,  with 
plenty  of  bread  and  butter,  a  skillet,  and  a  supply  of 
fat,  salt  pork.  The  fisherman  who  could  not  be 
happy  on  such  a  stream,  on  such  a  day,  whether 
the  fish  would  bite  or  not,  listening  to  the  laughter 
of  the  water,  watching  the  flickers  of  sunshine 
strained  through  the  meshes  of  the  trees,  drinking 
in  the  sweet,  pure  air,  in  close  touch  with  nature,  is 
a  hopeless  pessimist.  Fishing  side  by  side,  some- 
times one  and  then  the  other  going  first,  the  friends 
loitered  down  that  beautiful  stream  while  "  not  a 
wave  of  trouble  rolled  across  their  peaceful 
breasts."  Now  and  then  an  exceptionally  fine  trout 
was  taken,  and  then  fishing  was  suspended  while 
they  examined  and  exclaimed  over  it.  They  won- 
dered again,  as  they  had  often  done  before,  why 
some  of  the  fish  should  be  red  of  firt  and  belly  and 
with  yellow  meat,  while  others  had  the  greyish- 
white  fin  and  belly,  with  white  meat.  The 
Preacher  caught  two  trout  from  under  the  same 
log,  one  with  blood-red  fins  and  golden  flesh,  the 
other  white.  They  were  both  speckled  trout,  lived 
side  by  side,  ate  the  same  food,  but  differed  as 
greatly  as  a  red-headed  boy  and  an  albino. 

At  noon,  where  the  waters  of  a  cold  spring 
bubbled  out  of  the  bank,  a  fire  was  made,  the  fat 
pork  set  to  sizzling  in  the  skillet  and  then — but 
what's  the  use  ?  Trout  fresh  from  the  brook,  fried 
over  a  fire  in  the  open  and  eaten  with  an  appetite 
engendered  by  hours  of  tramping  and  wading, 


IN  THE  NORTH  WOODS  59 

make  a  disn  for  the  adequate  description  of  which 
words  are  impotent.  Of  course,  the  smaller  trout 
were  chosen  for  the  mid-day  meal,  not  alone  that 
the  catch  might  look  better  when  exhibited  that 
night,  but  because  they  tasted  better  than  the  larger 
ones.  How  many  did  we  eat  ?  Ask  the  Doctor ! 
Who  should  understand  the  proper  amount  of  food 
to  be  taken  into  the  stomach  at  a  single  meal,  if  not 
one  of  his  profession? 

An  hour  or  so  for  luncheon  and  chatting,  and 
then  into  the  stream  again  and  on  our  way  towards 
its  mouth.  The  creels  were  getting  heavy,  and  the 
Doctor  decided  to  take  a  short  cut  for  the  lake 
shore.  Just  before  starting,  the  two  were  stand- 
ing near  together  fishing  a  pool,  when  the  Doctor, 
taking  a  forward  step,  slipped  on  a  smooth  stone 
and  began  falling.  The  process  was  the  most  slow, 
deliberate,  and  altogether  comical  the  Preacher 
ever  witnessed.  As  he  began  losing  his  balance 
and  tipping  over  backwards,  he  made  frantic 
efforts  to  regain  his  poise.  Both  hands  waving  in 
the  air,  one  clutching  his  rod,  eyes  popping  out  of 
his  head,  a  look  of  mingled  surprise  and  disgust 
illuminating  his  manly  face,  the  final,  mighty  splash 
as  the  stream  yielded  to  the  impact  of  his  body, 
formed  a  most  delightful  picture  for  his  sympa- 
thetic and  sorrowing  comrade.  Strangely  enough, 
the  Doctor  could  not  see  the  humour  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  if  he  should  ever  deign  to  read  this 
truthful  record  it  is  doubtful  if  he  cracks  a  smile. 


60  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

Thoroughly  drenched,  the  Doctor's  previous  de- 
termination to  take  a  short-cut  home  was  much 
strengthened.  He  struck  off  into  the  woods  and 
the  Preacher  was  left  alone  to  follow  the  stream. 
When  he  had  reached  the  cabin  the  Doctor  had  not 
arrived.  When  it  was  almost  sundown  and  no 
Doctor,  the  guide  started  out  in  search  of  him. 
According  to  later  reports  the  Doctor  was  found  in 
a  depressed  state  of  mind  playing  hide-and-go-seek 
with  the  trees  in  a  tamarack  swamp.  The  guide 
declared  that  he  knew  where  they  were  all  of  the 
time — a  most  credible  statement.  They  were  in  a 
tamarack  swamp.  It  was  well  towards  nine 
o'clock  when  they  arrived  at  camp,  and  it  took  a 
hot  supper  to  restore  their  normal  good  spirits. 

The  guide  had  frequently  descanted  upon  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  fishing  on  "  Lost  Creek  ";  but  as  that 
stream  was  seven  miles  away,  and  no  trail  led  to  it, 
members  of  the  party  had  not  shown  great  eager- 
ness to  make  the  trip.  But  when  the  lake  and 
near-by  streams  had  become  familiar  through  fre- 
quent visits,  the  Doctor,  the  Boy  and  the  Preacher 
decided  upon  an  excursion  to  "  Lost  Creek." 
After  crossing  the  lake,  the  guide  plunged  into 
what  seemed  an  impenetrable  jungle,  and  steadily 
led  the  way  up  and  over  the  hill,  through  dense 
thickets  showing  no  sign  of  ever  having  been  trav- 
ersed before.  He  never  seemed  to  hesitate  which 
way  to  go,  and  his  confidence  was  inexplicable  to 
those  who  followed  until  he  pointed  to  a  tree  that 


IN  THE  NORTH  WOODS  61 

had  been  "  blazed,"  then  to  another  in  the  distance. 
He  was  not  guessing  or  travelling  by  compass,  but 
following  a  "  blazed  trail." 

The  first  sight  of  the  stream  was  disappointing 
not  to  say  disheartening.  Here  was  no  dashing 
brook  dancing  its  way  along,  but  seemingly  dead 
water  in  a  great  stretch  of  marsh  land.  The  guide 
called  it  a  "  beaver-meadow,"  although  we  saw  no 
signs  of  the  animal  or  of  its  architectural  activities. 
But  there  were  trout,  as  we  soon  proved.  Pushing 
along  through  the  marsh  grass,  frequent  catches  of 
good-sized  fish  were  made,  until  at  last  the 
Preacher  had  a  notable  experience,  not  only  for 
that  day,  but  for  any  he  ever  spent  in  fishing.  The 
Doctor  was  fishing  ahead,  and  as  he  vacated  a  dry 
hummock,  having  taken  two  trout  from  that  point 
of  vantage,  his  friend  stepped  into  the  same  spot. 
The  first  cast  brought  a  trout,  as  did  the  second  and 
the  third  and  so  on  until  he  had  taken  sixty  fine  fish 
without  stirring  from  his  tracks.  And  they  all  came 
from  the  same  point  in  the  stream.  The  lure  fell 
in  vain  three  feet  away  from  this  particular  spot. 
They  were  not  fingerlings,  but  ten-inch  and  twelve- 
inch  fellows.  The  Preacher's  creel  and  his  pockets 
were  full  when  the  guide  and  the  Doctor,  returning 
along  the  creek,  came  upon  him.  The  guide's  ex- 
planation was  that  the  fortunate  Preacher  hap- 
pened in  his  first  cast  to  strike  a  "  pot-hole,"  a  de- 
pression in  the  bed  of  the  creek,  where  the  water 
was  cool  and  in  which  the  trout  gathered  in  great 


62  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

numbers.  The  explanation  mattered  little  to  the 
Preacher;  it  was  the  fact  that  counted.  Even  now 
he  would  gladly  give  two  old  sermons  to  be  per- 
mitted to  stand  again  on  the  banks  of  "  Lost 
Creek  "  if  he  were  sure  of  locating  that  "  pot-hole." 


OVER 
THE 

SIMPLON 
PASS 


OVER  THE  SIMPLON  PASS 


E  agreed,  my  wife  and  I,  that  the 
couple  whom  we  saw  for  the  first 
time  in  the  post-office  at  Domo 
d'Ossoli  and  a  little  later  met  in 
the  gathering  room  at  the  hotel, 
would  be  well  worth  knowing. 
They  were,  evidently,  not  only  husband  and 
wife,  but  good  chums,  thoroughly  congenial,  and 
rejoicing  in  each  other's  companionship.  That 
they  were  intelligent  no  one  could  doubt,  and  they 
radiated  kindliness  and  courtesy.  They  were 
dressed  for  roughing  it,  and  we  were  prepared  for 
the  remark  of  the  gentleman,  made  to  a  by-stander, 
that  they  had  been  spending  a  week  in  mountain 
climbing  in  the  neighbourhood.  When  he  added 
that  they  would  cross  into  the  Rhone  Valley  by  dili- 
gence on  the  morrow,  we  were  conscious  of  a  dis- 
tinctly pleasant  sensation  at  the  thought  that,  for 

65 


66  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

one  day  at  least,  they  were  to  be  our  fellow-trav- 
ellers. 

The  table  d'hote  that  evening  gave  us  the  desired 
opportunity  to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  the  at- 
tractive strangers,  for  they  were  seated  directly 
across  the  table  from  us. 

"Going  over  the  Simplon  tomorrow?"  I  ven- 
ture to  ask  the  gentleman.  "  Yes." — Dead  pause! 
"  I  am  sure  that  you  enjoy  Italy,"  is  our  next  ef- 
fort to  make  conversation.  "  Yes,"  a  pause  even 
more  absolutely  dead  than  the  preceding  one. 
What's  the  matter?  Do  they  take  us  for  pick- 
pockets? We  furtively  examine  our  attire  to  see 
if  we  are  looking  especially  dowdy,  but  can 
discover  nothing  very  reprehensible.  Possi- 
bly they  are  diffident,  so  here  goes  for  another 
attempt : 

"  Do  you  know  at  what  time  we  start  in  the 
morning?  "  Of  course  we  know,  have  known  for 
weeks;  but  it  is  a  question  whose  answer  offers 
good-sized  opportunities  for  something  more  than 
a  monosyllable. 

"  Six-thirty."  We  wait  anxiously,  but  that  is  all. 
Even  the  most  obtuse  individual  must  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  questioner  is  being  snubbed; 
quite  courteously,  but  also  very  unmistakably 
snubbed.  Our  American  blood  begins  to  boil 
gently,  and  a  solemn  vow  is  registered  then  and 
there  to  let  these  attractive  but  unfriendly  people 
severely  alone.     Meanwhile,  they  have  been  chat- 


OVER  THE  SIMPLON  PASS  67 

ting  with  each  other  in  some  unfamiliar  language 
which  is  not  Italian  or  French  or  German. 

When  we  leave  the  hotel  the  next  morning  for 
the  all-day  ride  over  the  Alps  our  unresponsive 
fellow-travellers  are  in  the  banquette  at  the  ex- 
treme rear  end  of  the  diligence,  while  we  occupy 
the  coupe  directly  under  the  driver's  seat.  We 
could  not  speak  to  them  if  we  would,  and  would 
not  if  we  could.  Indeed,  they  are  soon  forgotten 
in  the  joy  of  the  hour.  The  deep  blue  of  the 
Italian  sky  unflecked  by  a  cloud,  the  broad,  smooth 
highway,  the  cottages  with  their  tiny  patches  of 
cultivated  land,  the  exhilarating  morning  air  and 
the  rattling  pace  at  which  we  bowl  along  for  the 
first  mile  or  more,  would  help  us  to  ignore  even  a 
greater  unhappiness  than  that  caused  by  the  snub- 
bing of  the  previous  evening. 

Now  we  have  left  the  level  road  and  begin  the 
long  and  tortuous  climb  towards  the  summit  of 
the  Simplon  Pass.  Again  and  again  we  cross  the 
brawling  stream  with  which  the  road  disputes  the 
right  of  way.  The  bridges  are  all  of  solid  stone. 
Yonder,  to  the  left,  the  mountains  rise  in  great 
ridges  and  piles  of  raw  rock,  while  on  the  right  a 
more  gentle  slope  is  covered  with  grass  and  shrubs. 
We  begin  to  count  the  waterfalls,  threads  of  spun 
silver  hung  against  the  dark  background  of  the 
rocks,  but  soon  lose  track  of  the  count.  On  the 
heights  the  snow  is  lying,  and  by  the  roadside  the 
wild  flowers  blossom  in  profusion.     What  a  glory 


68  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

of  flowers  we  find  on  these  Alpine  heights !  In 
every  meadow  and  pasture  lot  red  and  yellow  and 
blue  and  purple,  with  many  indescribable  shades, 
delight  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  the  traveller.  The 
rhododendron,  with  its  brilliant  colouring,  is  every- 
where, and  the  little  forget-me-not  nods  to  every 
passerby.  Up  and  still  up  we  climb,  and  every 
turn  of  the  road  brings  new  exclamations  of  delight 
as  the  wonderful  panorama  of  mountain  and  valley 
unfolds  before  us. 

But  now  we  have  reached  the  summit,  and  the 
tired  horses  are  brought  to  a  halt  in  front  of  the 
little  hotel  where  we  are  to  have  our  mid-day 
meal.  The  village  is  a  tiny  one,  of  a  dozen  houses 
or  so.  The  hotel  does  not  look  especially  attrac- 
tive, and  the  meal  is  even  less  appetizing  than 
the  appearance  of  the  building  has  led  us  to  expect. 
For  once  in  our  life  we  refuse  chicken — at  least  we 
are  content  with  one  mouthful.  Without  attempt- 
ing to  file  a  bill  of  particulars,  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  the  interval  between  the  death  of  that  bird  and 
its  appearance  on  the  table  as  food  has  been  unduly 
prolonged.  With  absolute  unanimity  the  guests 
abjure  chicken,  for  that  meal  at  least.  The  food 
is  so  sublimely  bad  that  every  one  laughs,  and  even 
our  foreign  friends  who  refused  to  respond  to  our 
advances  of  the  previous  evening  join  in  the  merri- 
ment. Somehow,  during  the  course  of  the  meal, 
we  are  led  to  speak  of  our  nationality,  and  then 
comes  the  revelation. 


OVER  THE  SIMPLON  PASS  69 

"Americans?"  cries  the  hitherto  unfriendly 
foreigner.  "  Americans  ?  "  echoes  his  wife,  who 
up  to  this  time  had  not  been  supposed  to  understand 
a  word  of  English.  The  mystery  is  solved.  This 
gentleman  and  his  wife  are  Hollanders  and  have 
taken  us  for  English.  It  is  at  the  time  when  the 
English-Boer  war  is  at  its  height,  and  the  Hollander 
has  no  dealings  with  the  Englishman  if  he  can  help 
it.  The  gentleman  is  an  Amsterdam  physician, 
and  a  man  of  culture  and  wide  reading.  His  evi- 
dent effort  to  be  friendly  reaches  a  climax  when 
he  tells  us  of  his  hotel  at  Brieg,  where  we  are  to 
spend  the  night,  and  assures  us  that  there  we  will 
be  certain  to  have  trout  for  dinner. 

Now  for  the  last  half  of  the  trip!  We  have 
only  just  left  the  hotel  when  the  diligence  is  stopped 
and  the  passengers  are  asked  to  get  out  and  walk 
for  a  mile  across  the  debris  of  an  avalanche  which 
came  thundering  down  from  the  terminal  moraines 
of  the  Ross  Boden  glacier  the  previous  spring.  The 
diligence  sways  and  lurches  and  thumps  along, 
while  we  pick  our  way  over  stones  and  ice  and 
around  giant  rocks.  Halfway  across  we  meet  a 
young  man  who  has  spent  nearly  all  of  his  waking 
hours  for  months  past  in  search  for  the  body  of 
his  sister  who  met  her  death  under  the  sudden 
sweep  of  the  avalanche. 

Here,  in  this  little  monastery — so  they  tell  us — 
is  where  Napoleon  made  his  headquarters  for  a 
time  when  he  led  his  troops  over  the  mighty  moun- 


70  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

tains  to  the  sunny  plains  of  Italy.  We  stop  long 
enough  to  admire  the  St.  Bernard  dogs,  and  then 
on  down  the  mountains.  When  we  begin  the 
descent  some  of  the  party  assert  that  this  ride  will 
be  less  interesting  than  that  of  the  morning  when 
we  were  all  the  time  climbing  upward.  Possibly 
it  is;  but  it  is  far  more  exciting.  Five  horses 
going  at  full  speed  towards  a  precipice  which  drops 
away  for  a  full  thousand  feet,  the  leaders  seem- 
ingly pawing  into  space  before  they  turn  the  corner, 
the  outer  wheels  of  the  diligence  constantly  flirting 
with  the  edge  of  the  precipice — these  are  things 
that  lead  to  nervous  prostration.  As  I  look  back 
at  that  trip  I  am  satisfied  that  it  was  only  by  lean- 
ing hard  toward  the  inside  of  the  road  that  I  saved 
the  passengers  and  the  whole  outfit  from  untimely 
destruction. 

When  the  Amsterdam  doctor  descanted  upon 
the  deliciousness  of  the  trout  served  in  the  Brieg 
hostelry,  he  awakened  memories  of  the  Nepigon 
and  the  Adirondacks,  of  northern  Wisconsin  and 
the  Miramichi !  I  formed  a  resolution,  then  and 
there,  to  catch  as  well  as  to  eat  some  of  the  trout 
for  which  Brieg  was  said  to  be  famous.  Arriving 
at  Brieg  at  5.30  p.m.  after  our  drive  of  forty  miles, 
I  at  once  interviewed  the  concierge  of  the  hotel, 
who  assured  me  that  it  would  be  no  trick  at  all  to 
catch  a  mess  of  trout  before  dinner-time.  Away 
to  a  tackle  store,  where  line  and  leader  and  hooks 
were  bought  and  a  cane-pole  rented,  an  interview 


OVER  THE  SIMPLON  PASS  71 

with  the  hotel  "  boy,"  who  dug  a  can  of  worms  fat 
enough  to  have  come  from  Holland,  and  then  for 
the  Rhone,  which  was  rushing  along  the  valley 
about  half  a  mile  distant.  The  first  sight  of  the 
river  somewhat  dampened  my  ardour.  It  was  of 
a  dirty  milk  colour,  and  no  respectable  American 
trout  would  live  in  it  for  a  moment.  But  then,  I 
reasoned,  Swiss  trout  may  not  know  any  better — 
so  here  goes.  I  fished  in  the  rapids  and  in  swirling 
pools,  under  low  bending  alders  and  by  the  side  of 
huge  rocks.  I  skittered  those  fat  worms  on  the 
surface,  and  dropped  them  down  to  the  bottom. 
Every  trick  of  the  angler  learned  by  experience  or 
gathered  from  conversation  and  reading,  was  tried 
in  vain.  Tell  it  not  in  Skegemog  and  publish  it 
not  on  Prairie  River! — but  I  never  had  a  bite. 
And  yet  I  was  not  cast  down.  The  setting  sun 
was  turning  the  mountain  tops  into  glory,  the 
laughterof  reapers  ina  neighbouring  field,  the  tinkle 
of  goats'  bells  far  up  the  mountain  side,  the  gurgle 
and  singing  of  the  Rhone,  the  beauty  of  that  match- 
less valley — I  had  gained  all  these  by  my  efforts, 
even  though  of  fish  I  had  none. 

Let  no  hard-hearted  reader  giggle  over  my  poor 
luck,  for  when  I  sat  down  that  night  to  dinner, 
and  the  far-famed  Brieg  trout  were  placed  before 
me,  behold!  they  were  not  trout  at  all,  but  some 
sort  of  a  sucker,  full  of  pronged  bones  and  with 
soft  white  meat.  I  never  had  any  ambition  to 
catch  suckers. 


ON  SEA 
AND  SHORE 


VI 


ON  SEA  AND  SHORE 


D.  HOWELLS  made  a 
pathetic  confession  some 
ago  in  an  article  contrib- 
to  a  well-known  journal 
he  said  concerning  vaca- 
"  Whatever  choice  you 
make,  you  are  pretty  sure  to  regret  it."  Either 
Mr.  Howells  was  "  out  of  tune  with  the  universe  " 
or  he  never  tried  Edgartown. 

Lest  some  of  our  readers  should  assume  some 
selfish  motive  as  prompting  this  bold  proclamation 
of  Edgartown  as  an  attractive  spot  in  which  to 
spend  the  summer  days,  let  it  be  said  that  the  writer 
does  not  stand  in  with  any  hotel  proprietor  or  real 
estate  dealer  in  this  village  by  the  sea — or 
elsewhere. 

Just  how  Martha's  Vineyard  came  by  its  name 
is  not  certain.     One  tradition  has  it  that  when,  in 

75 


76  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

1605,  Bartholomew  Gosnold  sailed  from  England 
for  "  Northern  Virginia  "  and  chanced  upon  No 
Man's  Land,  he  gave  it  the  name  of  Martha's  Vine- 
yard, and  that,  for  some  unknown  reason,  this 
name  was  transferred  to  the  neighbouring  island. 

Still  another  tradition  alleges  that  the  first  settler 
on  the  island  had  a  loved  daughter  to  whom  he  gave 
a  tract  of  land  where  vines  grew  luxuriantly;  and 
so  not  only  her  tract,  but  the  whole  island  came  to 
be  known  as  Martha's  Vineyard.  Neither  theory 
costs  anything;  they  are  probably  about  equally 
true — you  can  take  your  choice. 

At  the  extreme  eastern  end  of  Martha's  Vine- 
yard is  the  quaint,  restful  village  of  Edgartown. 
Turn  your  face  towards  the  sun-rise  and  you  look 
across  a  narrow  bay  to  Chappaquiddick  Island, 
lying  like  a  giant  earthwork  to  protect  the  village 
from  the  assaults  of  the  ocean.  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  ramble  about  a  bit?  We'll  start  in  at  this 
ravine  south  of  the  town,  for  it  was  here  that  the 
first  settler  made  his  home.  Considering  that  he 
built  his  log  cabin  in  1630,  only  ten  years  after  the 
landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  it  is  not  strange  that 
nothing  remains  to  mark  the  place  of  his  abode 
but  this  grass-grown  depression  in  the  hill-side. 

Going  south  along  the  main  street  we  come  to 
the  old  Mayhew  house,  built  in  1698,  and  looking 
as  if  it  proposed  to  stand  for  a  few  centuries  longer. 
Tradition  has  it  that  during  the  Revolutionary 
War  a  cannon-ball  passed  through  its  walls,  going 


ON*  SEA  AND  SHORE  77 

in  at  the  rear  and  coming  out  at  the  front.  We 
stop  just  long  enough  to  make  an  unsuccessful  hunt 
for  the  hole,  and  then  on  to  the  Collins  place. 
What  is  there  especially  interesting  about  this  fairly 
modern  house  ?  Just  this :  that  it  was  our  home 
through  many  summer  days,  and  we  can  never 
think  of  it  or  of  its  hospitable  mistress  without  a 
thrill  of  delight.  Out  there  in  the  front  yard 
gleam  the  white  grave-stones  which  mark  the  rest- 
ing places  of  members  of  the  family  who  died  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  From  the  wide 
porch  at  the  back  of  the  house  you  look  out  over 
the  bay  to  Chappaquiddick,  and  may  even  catch 
glimpses  of  the  sea,  looking  either  to  the  north  or 
to  the  south. 

We've  rested  long  enough,  and  will  resume  our 
journey  up  the  street  to  the  Fisher  house.  Some 
day  we  will  make  a  long  stop  here,  for  it  is  a  pre- 
Revolutionary  mansion  and  full  of  relics  of  the 
olden  days.  Here  are  quaint  old  deeds,  some  of 
them  in  the  Indian  language,  and  no  end  of  curios 
gathered  by  members  of  the  family  during  a  pro- 
longed stay  in  Spain. 

If  you've  leisure,  let's  visit  the  piers.  Time  was 
when  all  was  bustle  here,  but  it  is  depressingly 
quiet  now.  Forty  vessels  in  a  single  year  sailed 
from  this  port  in  search  of  whales.  An  old  record 
bearing  date  of  November  II,  1652,  tells  us  that 
"  Thos.  Daggett  and  Wm.  Weeks  are  appointed 
whale  cutters  for  this  year;  voted  the  day  above 


78  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

written."  In  those  days  whales  were  frequently 
cast  upon  the  beach  by  severe  storms,  and  whale 
cutters  were  appointed  to  insure  a  fair  division  of 
the  spoil.  Now  the  whaling  industry  is  a  thing  of 
the  past.  One  of  the  pathetic  sights  of  the  village 
is  an  old  whaling  vessel  tied  to  the  pier  and  slowly 
rotting  away.  It  is  many  a  year  since  the  last  of 
these  vessels  sailed  from  port,  but  if  we  are  for- 
tunate enough  to  meet  one  of  the  retired  captains 
and  can  induce  him  to  tell  us  something  of  his 
experiences,  we  shall  come  quite  near  enough  to 
the  hardships  and  privations  of  those  heroic  days. 
Do  you  see  that  man  going  along  Water  Street? 
He  sailed  a  whaling  vessel  for  forty  years,  and 
one  of  his  voyages  lasted  six  years  lacking  ten 
days. 

You  can  take  your  choice  between  visiting  the 
old  burial  ground  on  "  Tower  Hill "  or  going  out 
for  a  sail.  Take  the  sail?  I  thought  so.  Of 
course,  there  are  brown  old  head-stones  with  quaint 
epitaphs  up  there  on  the  hill,  but  who  that  is  in 
possession  of  his  senses  would  pass  up  the  chance 
to  go  sailing  in  a  Cape  Cod  catboat  on  such  a  day 
as  this? 

Here  we  are  on  board  the  "  Quickstep,"  one  of 
the  smartest  boats  on  the  coast,  with  a  captain  who 
knows  the  sea  as  a  native  New  Yorker  knows 
Broadway.  While  we  are  dropping  down  the  bay 
before  the  light  wind,  you  may  like  to  hear  of  the 
gale  when  this  same  boat  and  captain  were  blown 


ON  SEA  AND  SHORE  79 

out  to  sea.  The  storm  came  up  suddenly  and  the 
wind  blew  directly  off  shore.  The  captain  was 
fishing  just  off  the  Muskeget  shoals  and  tried  hard 
to  beat  in,  but  in  vain.  When  the  gale  had  blown 
itself  out,  wrecks  were  strewn  all  along  the  coast, 
and  the  Edgartown  people  had  given  up  the  captain 
for  lost;  but  on  the  fourth  day  he  came  sailing  into 
harbour.  Single-handed  and  alone  he  had  fought 
the  storm  and  had  won  the  fight. 

Isn't  this  a  great  day?  and  isn't  this  the  ideal 
way  of  getting  over  the  water?  Better  let  the 
captain  take  the  tiller,  for  we're  coming  to  the  bar 
and  the  channel  is  crooked.  Now  we're  over  and 
you  can  see  Nantucket  off  there  to  the  south. 
Where  you  see  the  rough  water  is  Muskeget  shoals, 
and  the  captain  says  that  at  certain  tides  the 
strongest  vessel  would  be  wrenched  to  pieces  by 
the  fierce  currents  and  counter-currents.  Did  you 
ever  see  sky  more  blue  or  feel  air  more  full  of 
tonic?  Don't  worry!  We  shall  curtsy  a  little, 
but  the  water  is  not  rough  enough  to  make  trouble 
for  the  most  sensitive  landsman.  Going  around 
Chappaquiddick,  Captain?  Good!  That  is  just 
about  a  twenty-mile  sail. 

Have  I  ever  been  out  here  when  it  was  rough? 
Haven't  I  told  you  about  the  trip  after  mackerel 
when  we  had  on  board  a  load  of  theology?  No? 
Well,  we  shall  have  plenty  of  time  for  the  story 
before  we  sight  the  light-house. 

It  was  a  nasty  sort  of  a  morning,  but  as  friends 


80  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

had  come  over  from  Cottage  City  the  night  before 
for  the  express  purpose  of  having  a  day  with  the 
mackerel  we  concluded  to  try  it  notwithstanding 
the  weather.  Dr.  G.  had  brought  along  his  boy  of 
twelve,  and  as  we  sailed  down  the  quiet  water  of 
the  bay  that  boy  was  simply  bubbling  over  with 
happiness.  The  lad  besought  his  father  to  make 
an  arrangement  with  the  captain  whereby  he  should 
spend  at  least  a  month  on  this  boat  the  following 
summer.  The  captain  seemed  willing,  and  as  we 
crossed  the  bar  the  boy  was  exulting  in  the  assur- 
ance of  long  days  of  perfect  bliss  only  one  year 
ahead.  The  wind  was  blowing  fresh  from  the 
north-west  and  as  soon  as  we  were  out  from  under 
the  shelter  of  the  land  the  boat  began  to  curvet  and 
jump  and  roll  and  quick-step  just  as  any  respect- 
able boat  is  bound  to  do  under  such  circumstances. 
In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  write  this  down  the 
joy  of  life  had  departed  for  that  lad  and  he  was 
carefully  laid  away.  The  lone  layman  of  the  party 
was  a  close  second,  and,  losing  all  interest  in  mack- 
erel, he  stretched  himself  out  on  deck.  The  Pro- 
fessor followed  suit,  and  Dr.  G.,  after  a  heroic 
struggle,  proceeded  to  part  company  not  only  with 
one  breakfast,  but,  seemingly,  with  a  dozen  or 
more.  The  captain,  who  was  an  interested  spec- 
tator of  the  process,  murmured  to  the  writer, 
"  Holy  mackerel !  What  an  eater  that  man  must 
be."  All  day  we  rolled  and  pitched,  with  three  of 
the  party  groaning  to  be  put  on  shore.    We  caught 


ON  SEA  AND  SHORE  81 

only  a  few  mackerel,  but  we  had  a  great  deal  of 
exercise. 

How  do  we  catch  mackerel  ?  As  you  are  asking 
how  we  do  it,  and  not  how  it  is  done  by  the  heart- 
less, unimaginative,  commercialized  Philistines  who 
chase  the  schools  in  steam  vessels,  I'll  tell  you. 
The  night  before,  the  captain  gets  the  fodder 
ready.  I  mean  the  fodder  for  the  mackerel,  not 
for  the  fishermen.  It  is  about  as  nauseous  a  mess 
as  one  can  imagine.  Salted  menhaden  and  the 
refuse  from  scallops  are  ground  up  together,  form- 
ing a  mass  of  about  the  consistency  of  thick 
molasses.  There  is  the  grinder  now,  just  inside 
the  cabin !    Looks  like  a  big  coffee-mill. 

We  usually  start  early  in  the  morning,  some- 
times before  daylight,  in  order  to  take  advantage 
of  a  favourable  tide.  When  we  are  out  to  sea  a 
sharp  lookout  is  kept  for  that  peculiar  ripple  on 
the  surface  of  the  water  which  denotes  the  presence 
of  a  school  of  mackerel.  When  we  have  sailed  to 
the  spot  we  "  come-to  "  and  drift  with  the  tide, 
while  dipperful  after  dipperful  of  the  "  chum  " — 
as  the  sticky  and  malodorous  mess  is  called — is 
thrown  out  upon  the  water.  The  mackerel  will 
throng  about  the  boat  to  feed  upon  this  dainty,  and 
then  the  fishing  begins.  Empty  barrels  on  deck,  a 
line — some  fifteen  feet  long — in  each  hand,  with 
hooks  that  are  set  into  pieces  of  lead  forming  a 
"  squid,"  and  the  sport  begins.  It  is  usual  to  bait 
with  a  piece  of  mackerel  belly,  pure  white;  but 


82  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

very  often  the  greedy  fish  will  bite  at  the  shining 
lead.  You  do  not  stop  to  unhook  the  fish,  but 
simply  slap  them  over  into  the  barrel  behind  you, 
and  then  out  with  the  hook  again.  Sport?  Yes, 
of  a  sort.  Gets  a  little  monotonous  after  a  while. 
The  captain  fishes  for  the  Boston  market,  so  we 
have  no  twinges  of  conscience  about  catching  as 
many  as  possible. 

Do  we  catch  anything  besides  mackerel?  If 
you'll  put  out  that  line  and  the  captain  will  sail 
along  the  edge  of  one  of  these  "  rips  "  you  are 
very  likely  to  have  a  practical  answer  to  your  ques- 
tion. Nothing  that  time;  but  the  captain  is  coming 
about  and  we'll  see  what  happens  on  the  other  tack. 
This  is  the  poetry  of  sea-fishing.  Here  we  are 
bowling  along  with  a  full  sheet  and — hang  on  to 
him !  No,  you  have  not  hooked  on  to  a  railroad 
train  but  a  blue-fish.  Look  out!  Don't  slacken 
on  your  line  or  you'll  lose  him.  Hurts  your 
fingers?  Of  course  it  does.  You  should  have 
put  cots  on  them.  Give  him  a  swing!  Keep  him 
clear  of  the  boat !    There ! 

There's  your  answer.  He's  the  bravest,  pluck- 
iest, gamiest  fish  on  the  coast.  We  sometimes 
spend  a  half  day  or  so  fishing  for  bottom-fish  like 
scup,  black-fish,  or  even  flounders,  for  they  bite 
freely  and  bring  a  fair  price  in  the  market;  but  if 
you're  fishing  for  sport,  there  is  just  one  fish  in 
these  waters  which  fills  the  bill  completely,  and  that 
is  the  blue-fish.     Sometimes  you   fish   for  hours 


ON  SEA  AND  SHORE  83 

without  getting  a  strike,  and  then  all  at  once  you 
run  into  a  school  of  them.  When  this  happens 
you  have  your  work  cut  out  for  you.  I  remember 
a  day  at  Block  Island  when  the  Doctor  and  I  had 
sailed  almost  entirely  around  the  island  with  our 
lines  trailing  unmolested  behind  the  boat.  Just  as 
we  were  approaching  the  starting  place  the  captain 
said,  "  Look  at  the  bluebills  jumping,  over  towards 
shore!  "  The  bluebill  is  a  small  fish  some  four  or 
five  inches  long,  and  favourite  food  for  the  blue- 
fish.  We  tacked  and  sailed  across  the  school,  back 
and  forth,  again  and  again,  and  when  the  fray  was 
over  we  had  sixty  blue-fish  lying  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat  that  averaged  over  five  pounds  in  weight. 
There's  the  light-house;  we'll  soon  be  in.  See 
that  hotel  on  the  hill?  I've  just  time  to  tell  you 
of  something  that  happened  there  on  a  summer 

morning  a  few  years  ago.     I  met  Dr.  on 

the  Providence  boat  and  he  asked  where  we  were 
stopping  and  if  we  had  any  fishing.  When  I  told 
him  of  the  "  Quickstep  "  and  Captain  Frank  and 
the  mackerel,  he  said,  "  I'll  be  over  Monday  morn- 
ing. I'm  tired  of  Assemblies  and  Chautauquas  and 
hotel  piazzas."  Monday  found  him  with  us,  and 
arrangements  were  made  to  start  at  five  o'clock 

Tuesday  morning.    The  hour  came,  but  Dr. 

did  not.  The  captain  worried  about  the  tide  and 
the  bar,  and  I  volunteered  to  see  what  had  become 
of  our  tardy  friend.  Pounding  on  the  hotel  door 
I  finally  managed  to  rout  out  the  night  watchman, 


84  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

who  readily  went  in  quest  of  the  Doctor.  Upon 
his  return  he  reported  that  the  would-be  fisherman 
had  been  asleep,  but  was  now  dressing  and  would 
be  down  very  soon.  The  minutes  passed,  the  tide 
was  ebbing,  and  no  Doctor.  Finally  I  suggested 
to  the  watchman  that  he  make  another  trip  to  see 
if  he  could  not  accelerate  the  Doctor's  motions. 
Reappearing  after  a  little,  the  watchman  said, 
"  What  do  you  think  ?  That  miserable  old  cuss 
had  gone  sound  asleep  again."  "  What  a  fall  was 
there,  my  countrymen!  "  The  D.  D.,  the  LL.  D., 
the  eloquent  preacher,  the  famous  lecturer,  the 
renowned  defender  of  the  "  faith  once  delivered  to 
the  saints,"  the  man  whose  name  is  a  household 
word  among  those  affiliated  with  one  of  our  largest 
Protestant  bodies  catalogued  as  a  "  miserable  old 
cuss ! " 

Here  we  are,  at  the  pier.  Confess  now,  that  for 
unadulterated  pleasure  a  sail  such  as  we've  just 
had  beats  motoring,  whether  on  land  or  water, 
out  of  sight.  Independent  of  the  wind  in  a  motor 
boat?  Yes,  but  not  of  the  sputtering  and  chugging 
and  smell.  Remember  what  Tennyson  says  in 
Locksley  Hall?  I  don't  know  that  I  can  quote  it 
accurately,  but  the  idea  is  that  a  day  in  a  cat-boat 
is  better  than  a  thousand  years  in  a  naphtha  launch. 


AMONG 
THE 

NORTHERN 
PINES 


VII 

AMONG  THE  NORTHERN  PINES 

E  reached  the  lake  in  the  evening, 
and  started  out  bright  and  early 
the  next  morning  to  call  upon 
some  of  the  old  inhabitants  who 
wear  fins  and  have  a  reputation 
for  being  scaly.  A  new  and  fasci- 
nating Dowagiac  minnow  caught  the  eye  of  a  big 
bass  before  we  had  gone  forty  rods,  and  connec- 
tions were  promptly  established.  As  he  was  being 
kindly  but  firmly  persuaded  to  approach  the  boat 
he  flung  himself  into  the  air,  gave  a  twist  and  a 
wiggle  and  a  shake  and  thus  succeeded  in  appropri- 
ating that  Dowagiac  to  his  own  uses.  He  has  not 
been  heard  from  since  that  brief  interview,  but  it 
is  safe  to  say  that  he  is  putting  on  airs  as  he 
dangles  that  rainbow-coloured  minnow  before  the 
eyes  of  his  admiring  relatives.  We  have  some- 
times doubted  the  truth  of  the  old  saw  that  it  is 

87 


88  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

unlucky  to  lose  the  first  fish  hooked,  but  all  doubt 
on  that  point  has  been  put  to  flight. 

A  day  or  two  later  five  fine  bass  were  caught  one 
afternoon  and  hung  over  the  side  of  the  boat  on  a 
hastily  improvised  stringer.  Rowing  home  the 
stringer  parted  through  chafing  on  the  side  of  the 
boat  and  the  bass  went  their  respective  ways.  Not 
content  with  this  unfriendly  slap,  Dame  Fortune — 
or  inexcusable  carelessness — permitted  the  string 
of  the  minnow  pail,  also  hanging  over  the  side  of 
the  boat,  to  break,  involving  the  loss  not  only  of 
the  pail  but  of  some  four  dozen  A-i  minnows. 
When  the  Junior  had  captured  a  three-pound  bass 
we  concluded  to  tie  him — the  bass — up  to  a  root 
that  reached  out  over  the  water  and  to  keep  him 
until  later.  Just  when  he  seemed  to  be  thoroughly 
halter-broken  he  succeeded  in  untying  the  knot  and 
we  saw  him  no  more.  All  this  was  bad  enough, 
but  to  make  a  complete  job  of  our  discomfiture 
the  minnow-trap  which  was  supposed  to  be  busily 
at  work  luring  bait  for  our  use,  suddenly  and 
unaccountably  disappeared.  Then  the  outer  pail 
of  the  new  minnow-bucket  was  missing  and  the 
scaler  could  not  be  found.  It  rained  and  then 
rained  some  more.  The  bass  absolutely  refused 
to  strike  at  a  spoon-hook  or  pork  rind  or  the  new 
Dowagiac.  Why  did  we  ever  leave  our  happy 
home? 

It  is  always  darkest  just  before  dawn.  The 
outer  pail  of  the  new  minnow-bucket  had  been 


AMONG  THE  NORTHERN  PINES       89 

borrowed  by  a  Methodist  preacher  who  was  camp- 
ing nearby,  and  was  returned  the  same  afternoon. 
The  minnow-trap  had  been  rolled  out  into  deep 
water  by  the  under-tow,  and  within  twenty-four 
hours  of  its  disappearance  was  back  in  its 
accustomed  place  and  hard  at  work.  The  scaler 
reappeared  as  suddenly  and  unaccountably  as  it 
had  disappeared.  A  new  stringer  was  easily  manu- 
factured and,  with  a  plentiful  supply  of  minnows, 
the  bass  needful  to  adorn  the  stringer  were  easily 
persuaded  to  come  to  hook.  The  weather-man 
repented  of  his  unkindness  and  gave  us  days  of 
glorious  sunshine.  The  lake  dimpled  and  laughed, 
the  pines  whispered  all  kinds  of  friendly  messages, 
the  red-squirrels  scolded  at  us  from  the  tree-tops 
where  they  were  busy  cutting  off  pine  cones,  and 
the  chipmunks  made  friendly  advances  as  we  sat 
by  the  lakeside.  The  moon  almost  turned  night 
into  day  and  night  loons  called  to  us,  "  Ha !  Ha ! 
What's  the  matter  with  you?  This  is  a  beautiful 
world.  Minnesota  is  the  finest  part  of  the  world 
and  this  is  the  fairest  spot  in  Minnesota.  Cheer 
up !  "    And  we  did. 

Now  that  we  have  gotten  out  of  the  dumps  and 
life  is  worth  living,  let's  go  fishing.  What  shall 
it  be  ?  Or  will  you  take  anything  that  comes  your 
way?  There  are  bass  and  crappies  and  sunfish 
and  great  northern  pike,  not  to  mention  rock-bass 
and  perch.  The  natives  aver  that  there  are  also 
enormous  wall-eyed  pike  and  we  believe  it,  although 


90  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

they  were  always  out  when  we  called.  Thanks  be ! 
there  is  not  a  pickerel  in  the  lake.  The  great 
northern  pike  looks  much  like  his  kinsman,  the 
pickerel,  but  differs  in  body-markings,  gill-covers, 
general  shape — being  more  stocky — and  especially 
in  palatableness.  He  is  a  vigorous  fighter.  Mr. 
Louis  Rhead,  in  his  book  on  "  Fish  and  Fishing," 
says  that  neither  the  great  northern  pike  nor  the 
pickerel  has  ever  been  known  to  rise  above  the 
surface  of  the  water  after  being  hooked.  If  that 
is  correct,  then  something  new  under  the  sun  has 
happened  recently,  for  the  writer,  with  eighty  to 
a  hundred  feet  of  line  out,  had  a  nine-pounder 
throw  himself  entirely  out  of  the  water  in  his 
efforts  to  escape.  The  largest  ever  caught  in  this 
lake  weighed  thirty-six  pounds,  but  numbers  are 
taken  that  go  over  ten  pounds  each.  They  are 
nearly  as  gamey  and  quite  as  good  eating  as  the 
muskallonge. 

The  crappies  are  more  friendly.  Early  in  our 
stay  we  located  a  "  bed  "  which  never  failed  to 
respond  to  a  call.  If  there  is  any  fish  in  these 
northern  lakes  that  makes  a  more  delicious  dish 
than  fried  crappies,  we  want  to  be  introduced  to  it. 
It  is  not  all  unusual  to  take  them  weighing  a  pound 
each,  but  this  seems  trifling  when  the  Methodist 
preacher  aforementioned  tells  us  that  he  caught 
seventy-five  in  Lake  Itasca  in  less  than  an  hour 
which  averaged  two  pounds  each.     Bass  are  here 


AMONG  THE  NORTHERN  PINES       91 

in  abundance  but  were  not  responsive  this  summer. 
Those  caught  were  ridiculously  fat. 

To  cap  the  climax  of  attractions  there  is  a  trout 
stream  only  three  miles  away.  Visit  it?  Rather. 
A  friendly  neighbour  furnished  horse  and  buggy 
and  acted  as  guide.  We  had  a  few  alleged  angle- 
worms, and  even  with  these  emaciated,  scrawny 
apologies  for  bait  we  took  enough  trout  to  furnish 
a  meal  for  each  family  represented  by  the  anglers. 
The  stream  flows  through  a  marsh  and  is  fed  by 
numerous  springs.  Where  we  first  struck  the 
brook  one  needed  a  magnifying  glass  to  find  it. 
How  a  six-inch  trout  manages  to  turn  around  in 
it  passes  understanding.  It  grows  as  it  goes,  how- 
ever, and  widens  into  quite  a  respectable  stream 
during  its  journey  of  a  mile. 

For  some  years  now  the  writer  has  been  inflict- 
ing fish  stories  upon  the  unsuspecting  public,  and 
the  impulse  is  strong  within  him  to  add  more  to 
those  already  told.  He  has  a  new  supply  growing 
out  of  the  experiences  of  the  summer,  and  it  is  hard 
to  keep  them  bottled  up.  He  would  gladly  particu- 
larize concerning  the  ten-inch  trout  that  was  wait- 
ing for  him  under  the  roots  of  a  big  tamarack  just 
where  the  foam  had  formed  a  shady  hiding-place, 
or  mention  specially  some  of  the  fights  with  the 
pike.  But  the  cynical  skepticism  of  assumed 
friends,  the  frivolous,  not  to  say  contemptuous 
comments  made  concerning  the  writer's  previous 
contributions     to     piscatorial     knowledge,     have 


92  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

deeply  wounded  his  sensitive  spirit,  and  he  can- 
not summon  courage  to  challenge  renewed  un- 
kindness. 

Just  why  fish  stories  should  be  discredited  so 
readily  by  those  who  do  not  fish  it  is  difficult  to 
understand.  Why  should  a  man  who  does  not 
know  the  difference  between  a  spoon-hook  and  an 
ostrich  feather  and  who  cannot  tell  a  sunfish  from 
a  rainbow  trout  sit  in  judgment  upon  the  solemn 
assertions  of  experienced  anglers?  This  attitude 
of  chronic  unbelief  concerning  the  testimony  of 
honest  men  is  unbecoming.  We  have  heard  many 
fish  stories  during  the  summer,  all  of  them  true. 
We  have  even  heard  varying  accounts  of  the  same 
incident  and  have  believed  them  all.  That  comes 
from  possessing  a  trustful  spirit.  A  gentleman 
told  us  of  seeing  a  string  of  five  fine  bass  and  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  sunfish  and  perch  caught  by  a 
cottager  who  came  over  from  an  adjoining  lake. 
The  next  day  another  gentleman  gave  an  account 
of  the  same  catch  and  the  number  of  bass  had 
increased  to  twenty-five.  On  the  third  day,  as 
vouched  for  by  another  gentleman,  there  were  one 
hundred  bass  in  that  string  and  they  averaged 
between  four  and  six  pounds.  Now  some  suspi- 
cious individuals  would  scoff  at  the  apparent  dis- 
crepancies, but  it  is  easy  to  reconcile  the  different 
statements.  The  first  gentleman  may  have  seen 
the  catch  early  in  the  day  and  the  other  accounts 
may  have  been  based  upon  later  accumulations. 


AMONG  THE  NORTHERN  PINES       93 

Among  the  most  untiring  fishermen  met  this 
summer  were  a  father  and  son  who  chased  the 
great  northern  pike  with  a  zeal  worthy  of  such  a 
cause.  One  day  the  father  informed  me  that  they 
had  caught  a  pike  weighing  fifteen  pounds  the  day 
before.  Soon  after  the  son  gave  his  version  of  the 
capture  and  said  the  fish  weighed  eighteen  pounds. 
But  why  cavil?  Are  we  to  make  no  allowance 
for  youthful  imagination?  Is  a  little  matter  of 
three  pounds  to  be  allowed  to  spoil  a  good  fish 
story  ? 

The  writer  ventures  to  record  these  experiences 
because  they  are  not  his  own.  Possibly  he  may  be 
allowed  to  set  down  one  other  incident,  inasmuch 
as  it  does  not  concern  him  personally:  On  the 
shore  of  the  lake — the  precise  location  was  not 
given — once  lived  a  farmer  who  owned  a  dog 
famed  for  exceptional  intelligence.  It  occurred  to 
the  farmer  that,  as  the  dog  loved  the  water  and 
seemed  interested  in  the  fishing  excursions  which 
they  took  together,  it  might  be  possible  to  utilize 
the  canine  ability  to  practical  ends.  Fastening  a 
trolling  line  to  the  dog's  tail,  he  took  him  out  upon 
the  lake,  threw  him  overboard  and  rowed  rapidly 
to  shore.  Of  course,  the  dog  swam  after  the  boat 
and  had  not  gone  far  before  he  hooked  on  to  a 
good-sized  bass  which  he  dragged  after  him  to  the 
land.  The  owner  praised  the  dog  and  continued 
his  training  until  the  beast  had  become  a  proficient 
troller,  entering  into  the  sport  with  eagerness  and 


94  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

zest.  If  the  master  failed  to  set  him  to  work  for 
a  day  or  so  the  dog  would  bring  the  trolling  line  in 
his  mouth  and  plead — as  well  as  a  dumb  animal 
can — to  be  allowed  to  go  fishing.  If  he  caught  a 
bass  he  would  give  two  barks  to  announce  the 
capture,  and  if  a  pike  three  barks,  except  in  the  case 
of  an  exceptionally  large  one,  in  which  case  he 
barked  from  the  time  the  fish  struck  until  he  had 
landed  it.  If  he  had  the  misfortune  to  hook  a 
rock-bass  or  a  perch  he  would  sneak  down  the 
shore  to  some  unfrequented  spot  and  there  gnaw 
the  intruder  off  the  hook  and  then  go  back  to  work 
again.  Would  that  we  could  record  a  long  life  for 
this  most  wonderful  animal,  but,  alas!  he  came  to 
an  untimely  end.  When  but  four  years  of  age,  in 
the  fulness  of  his  powers,  he  begged  to  go  fishing 
one  lowering  day.  Soon  after  he  had  begun  troll- 
ing up  and  down  the  shore  the  master  heard  his 
bark  of  victory  and,  as  it  was  continued,  knew  that 
he  had  hooked  a  large  fish.  The  barks  soon  took 
on  a  note  of  anxiety,  gradually  merging  into  fear. 
Rushing  down  to  the  shore  the  horrified  farmer 
was  just  in  time  to  see  the  dog  being  rapidly  drawn 
backward  despite  his  most  heroic  efforts.  A  mo- 
ment later  and  a  great  pair  of  jaws  opened  and 
enveloped  both  dog  and  bark.  When,  now  and 
then,  on  cloudy  days,  a  sound  comes  across  the 
water  that  somewhat  resembles  a  bark,  the  resi- 
dents say  to  each  other,  "  There  is  the  big  pike 
that    swallowed    Perkins'    dog."      (The    writer 


AMONG  THE  NORTHERN  PINES       95 

hastens  to  say  that  he  did  not  see  the  dog  nor  the 
pike  nor  even  the  bark.) 

By  this  time  some  reader  may  be  interested  to 
know  where  the  lake  is  located  about  which  we 
are  writing.  A  journey  of  two  hundred  miles 
almost  due  north  from  Minneapolis  brings  the 
traveller  to  Park  Rapids,  a  live  and  growing  town 
on  the  Great  Northern  Railroad.  One  may  not 
travel  far  in  any  direction  from  this  town  without 
coming  across  a  lake.  Three  miles  to  the  east  is 
Long  Lake,  some  nine  miles  in  length  with  an 
average  width  of  about  three-fourths  of  a  mile. 
It  is  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  spring- fed,  blue, 
with  sandy  beaches  and  broken,  wooded  shores. 
Here  among  the  pines  is  the  cottage  where  we 
spent  a  delightful  outing. 

Unless  all  signs  fail,  this  section  is  soon  to 
become  the  favourite  playground  of  the  Mississippi 
Valley.  It  has  almost  innumerable  attractive  lakes, 
the  fragrant  pines  are  everywhere,  the  air  is  pure 
and  invigorating,  the  fishing  is  varied  and  first- 
class.  Twenty-four  miles  from  Park  Rapids  is 
Lake  Itasca,  whose  fame  has  gone  abroad,  for  it 
is  here  that  the  mighty  Mississippi  has  its  source. 
It  lies  within  the  state  park,  which  includes  thirty- 
six  thousand  acres  of  land,  and  here  are  found 
magnificent  specimens  of  the  great  Norway  pine, 
once  so  common  over  all  this  country.  The  super- 
intendent of  the  park  is  given  the  privilege  of  con- 
ducting a  summer  resort  on  the  shores  of  Lake 


96  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

Itasca,  and  the  central  lodge  and  adjoining  cot- 
tages, all  built  of  pine  logs,  are  very  attractive.  An 
automobile  trip  on  an  ideal  day  gave  an  opportunity 
for  visiting  this  interesting  place.  We  wondered, 
as  we  approached  the  lodge,  at  seeing  the  boarders 
playing  tennis  and  pitching  quoits  when  ten  rods 
away  was  the  lake  and  fishing.  But  more  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  lake  dispelled  the  wonder. 
The  shoreline  is  timbered  and  beautiful,  but  the 
water  looks  dead,  and  not  a  sand  beach  is  to  be 
seen. 

It  is  now  all  in  the  past  except  the  memory. 
That  will  abide.  The  last  afternoon  of  our  stay 
we  rowed  across  the  lake  and  picked  a  gunny- 
sack  full  of  hazel  nuts,  took  a  swim  in  the  lake,  and 
then  built  a  fire  on  the  shore  over  which  we  roasted 
the  delicious  sweetcorn,  took  our  supper  in  the 
open,  and  rowed  home  as  the  shadows  deepened 
and  the  crescent  moon  hung  low  in  the  western 
sky.  We  shall  often  recall  the  sunny  days  and 
peace-filled  nights,  the  glory  of  the  sunsets  and  the 
enticement  of  the  beautiful  lake.  Possibly  we 
shall  feel,  at  times,  the  tingle  generated  by  the  big 
bass  or  the  ten-inch  trout.  Certainly  we  shall  live 
over  again  the  picnics  in  the  pine  woods  and  the 
days  spent  in  the  boat  voyaging  in  search  of  the 
wary  bass. 


IN 

THE  LAND 

OF  NOD 


VIII 
IN  THE  LAND  OF  NOD 


T  was  on  the  Steamer  "  Empress," 
plying  between  Point  du  Chene 
and  Summerside,  that  the 
Preacher  said  to  his  small  son, 
M  Yonder  is  the  land."  The  boy 
gazed  intently  for  a  moment  and 
then  solemnly  remarked,  "  That's  the  Land  of 
Nod."  Great  chap,  that  boy !  for  to  his  many  other 
accomplishments  he  added  in  that  hour  the  gift  of 
prophecy.  It  is  the  Land  of  Nod,  for  every  one  you 
meet  on  Prince  Edward  Island  gives  you  a  friendly 
nod,  and  after  you  have  been  there  a  few  hours 
all  tendency  to  pursue  the  strenuous  life  departs, 
and  the  summit  of  earthly  bliss  is  found  in  sitting 
under  the  shade  of  an  apple  tree  and  nodding  at 
nothing. 

Frankness  demands  a  confession;  namely,  the 
Preacher  went  to  Prince  Edward  Island  to  loaf. 

99 


100  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

He  was  not  in  search  of  a  divinity  school,  or  a 
summer  assembly,  or  a  wealthy  church  paying  fifty 
dollars  per  Sunday  for  supplies.  He  sought  a  spot 
where  committee  meetings  and  mosquitoes  and  dust 
and  noise  are  unknown;  where  he  could  have  un- 
limited supplies  of  fresh  vegetables,  milk,  cream, 
johnny-cake  and  cornmeal  mush;  where  he  could 
tickle  his  lungs  with  the  breath  of  the  sea,  and, 
above  all,  where  the  trout  hold  a  reception  every 
day  in  the  week — except  Sunday.  Do  I  hear 
some  dyspeptic,  pessimistic  preacher  saying, 
"There  isn't  any  such  place?"  Skepticism  is 
not  strange  in  one  whose  cup  of  bliss  runs 
over  when  he  finds  a  place  where  two  cot- 
tages are  built  on  a  forty- foot  lot  and  where 
he  can  plunge  into  the  wild  dissipation  of  croquet. 
Few  good  trout  streams  flow  past  the  front  door 
of  a  summer  hotel.  It  is  necessary,  as  a  rule,  even 
on  Prince  Edward  Island,  to  journey  beyond  the 
dooryard  before  coming  to  the  favourite  haunts  of 
that  festive  fish.  The  walking  is  good?  Yes,  but 
the  Preacher  found  a  way  that  beats  walking  all 
to  death.  Have  a  man  at  the  hotel  where  you  are 
stopping,  who  keeps  his  own  team  and  coachman; 
who  counts  that  day  lost  in  which  he  catches  no 
trout;  who  is  intelligent,  genial,  unselfish;  who  in- 
vites you  daily  to  share  his  buggy  in  trips  to 
streams  that  swarm  with  fish.  Such  a  man  there 
is  (so  far  as  the  writer  knows  there  is  but  one  on 
the  North  American  continent),  and  the  Preacher 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  NOD  101 

found  him.  Do  I  hear  pathetic  cries  from  my 
brother  preachers  piscatorially  inclined,  asking, 
"What's  his  name?"  "Where  does  he  live?" 
S-s-h !  my  dear  brethren.  He  is  pre-empted  by  the 
writer,  and  to  protect  you  from  any  temptation  to 
trespass,  we'll  just  call  him  the  Judge.  Only  the 
writer's  unimpeachable  veracity  as  a  teller  of  fish 
stories  will  save  him  from  mild  suspicion  when  he 
makes  the  following  statement:  The  Judge,  who 
knew  every  pool  for  ten  miles  around  where  the 
big  trout  rendezvous,  insisted  that  the  Preacher 
should  have  first  chance  at  these  fascinating  spots. 
Don't  believe  it  ?  Well,  no  one  can  blame  you  for 
your  skepticism,  for  in  the  annals  of  fishermen 
from  the  days  of  Izaak  Walton  until  now,  no  other 
such  example  of  self-abnegation  is  to  be  found. 

It  was  on  a  Monday  morning  that  the  Judge  and 
the  Preacher  made  their  first  descent  upon  the  un- 
suspecting trout.  The  point  of  attack  was  on  a 
tidal  stream  known  as  Tryon  Creek.  Some  of  the 
writer's  friends  have  grinned  derisively  when  he 
has  told  them  of  the  "  sea-trout"  of  Prince  Edward 
Island,  and  one  listener  opined  that  "  weak-fish  " 
were  probably  meant.  Of  course  there  are  always 
a  few  people  around  who  enjoy  the  rare  delights 
of  omniscience,  and  it  is  useless  to  offer  informa- 
tion to  such.  But  for  the  benefit  of  the  uninformed 
and  open-minded  let  it  be  said  that  in  every  tidal 
stream  on  the  south  shore  of  Prince  Edward  Island, 
the  well-known,  square-tailed,  speckled  trout  are 


102  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

found.  They  run  up  with  the  tide  and,  while  many 
go  back  as  the  tide  ebbs,  a  few  remain  in  the  pools. 
It  was  in  pursuit  of  these  sea-trout  that  we  sallied 
forth  on  this  Monday  morning.  The  tide  was  full 
when  we  reached  the  stream,  the  sun  shone  from 
an  unclouded  sky,  the  wind  had  gone  to  sleep,  and 
the  rank  marsh  grass  hid  innumerable  pit- falls. 
Picking  our  way  along  we  cast  industriously,  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  near  the  right  bank,  near  the 
left  bank,  up  stream,  down  stream — and  not  the 
suspicion  of  a  response.  Just  to  break  the  monotony 
the  Preacher  stepped  into  a  bog-hole  and  disap- 
peared, temporarily,  from  view.  In  response  to 
the  Judge's  anxious  query,  "  Where  are  you  ?  "  a 
smothered  voice  from  the  vicinity  of  the  grass- 
roots answered,  "  I'm  right  here."  That  ended 
the  marsh  fishing  for  that  day,  and  the  disgusted 
pair  wended  their  way  to  a  pool  at  the  head  of 
tide-water,  where  their  labour  was  not  in  vain. 
A  little  after  the  noon  hour  the  Judge  said, 

"  Now  we'll  go  up  to  Mr.  's  and  get  some 

lunch."  If  there  is  any  home  on  the  south  shore 
of  Prince  Edward  Island  where  the  Judge  has  not 
a  hearty  welcome  waiting  for  him  we  did  not  find 
it.  Under  a  tent  on  the  lawn  we  sat  at  ease, 
while  the  hospitable  hostess  brought  forth  great 
dishes  of  luscious  strawberries,  pitchers  of  cream, 
delicious  bread  and  butter,  and  then  mourned  be- 
cause we  would  not  go  into  the  house  and  have 
something  to  eat.    It  was  with  that  at-peace-with- 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  NOD  103 

all-the-world  feeling,  which  is  begotten  of  straw- 
berries and  cream,  that  we  turned  our  faces  once 
more  towards  Tryon  Creek.  The  Judge  said, 
"  Let's  try  the  pond."  Now  fishing  from  the  shore 
of  a  pond  is  torture  to  the  sensitive  soul  of  a  true 
sportsman,  so  it  came  to  pass  that  no  sooner  did 
we  behold  a  canoe  tied  to  the  bank  than  prepara- 
tions were  made  for  a  voyage  of  discovery.  We 
discovered,  all  right.  The  Judge  is  a  man  of 
parts,  and  his  fishing  weight  is  about  250  pounds. 
He  perched  himself  on  the  deck  at  one  end  of  the 
canoe  and  invited  the  Preacher  to  balance  him  on 
the  other.  The  proposition  seemed  to  admit  of 
debate,  but  the  Preacher — accustomed  to  doing  as 
he  is  told — clambered  into  the  place  assigned  him. 
Then  a  kind  friend  pushed  off  the  canoe  and — 
never  mind  the  particulars,  but  we  know  by  ac- 
curate measurement  that  the  water  at  that  point 
reaches  exactly  from  the  Judge's  hips  to  his  arm- 
pits when  he  is  in  a  sitting  posture.  The  canoe 
being  righted  the  Judge  insisted  that  the  Preacher 
should  enjoy  it  alone  while  he  would  skirmish  along 
the  shore.  This  arrangement  resulted  satisfactorily 
to  all  parties — unless  we  may  except  the  trout — 
and  long  before  sundown,  the  creels  were  filled  and 
the  horse's  head  was  turned  towards  home. 

The  writer  has  too  much  consideration  for  the 
feelings  of  his  readers  to  undertake  a  detailed  ac- 
count of  all  the  fishing  experiences  of  a  six  weeks' 
vacation,  but  he  is  not  to  be  choked  off  until  he  has 


104  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

hinted  at  some  of  the  things  missed  by  those  who 
were  not  there.  Dixon's  Mill!  How  the  nerves 
of  the  right  arm  tingle  just  at  the  writing  of  those 
two  words!  It  was  thereabouts  that  some  of  the 
greatest  days  of  the  summer  were  spent,  for  the 
pond  above  the  mill  and  the  pool  below  furnished 
unfailing  supplies  of  noble  trout.  The  pond  was 
bordered  on  one  side  by  a  steep  hill,  clothed  from 
water's  edge  to  summit  with  sombre  fir.  On  the 
other  side  were  the  miller's  garden  and  the  meadow. 
One  afternoon  the  Judge  paddled  the  Preacher 
about  this  pond  while  the  latter  industriously 
whipped  the  water  with  his  flies.  A  more  respon- 
sive congregation  that  Preacher  never  had.  They 
slept  not  nor  slumbered,  but  were  up  and  coming 
from  introduction  to  "  finally."  Twenty-three 
trout,  filling  a  fifteen-pound  creel,  were  the  fruits 
of  his  joyous  toil.  Then,  just  as  the  sun  had  gone 
down  behind  the  fir  trees  and  the  night  shadows 
began  to  thicken,  we  addressed  ourselves  to  the 
waiting  throng  below  the  mill.  There  were  quick 
and  constant  responses,  but  they  did  not  count  in 
comparison  with  the  swirl  made  by  one  old  veteran 
as  he  lunged  at  and  missed  the  fly.  Quickly  the  fly 
was  recovered  and  cast  again,  and  still  again,  for 
many  a  time.  Had  he  been  pricked  ?  Had  he  seen 
his  enemy  even  in  the  dim  twilight  ?  No,  for  here 
he  is  again,  and  this  time  his  aim  is  sure.  Back 
and  forth  he  rushes,  the  light  rod  bending  in  perfect 
harmony  to  his  movements,  until  the  lusty  foeman 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  NOD  105 

has  made  his  last  run  and  lies  exhausted  in  the  net. 
He  is  fresh  from  the  sea,  beautiful  as  a  dream, 
the  perfection  of  form  and  colouring. 

It  was  on  Dixon's  Pond  that  the  Junior  hooked 
his  first  fish.  Don't  blame  him  for  neglected  op- 
portunities, for  he  was  not  quite  three  years  old 
and  this  was  his  first  chance.  It  was  where  an  ice- 
cold  stream  comes  tumbling  from  the  hillside  into 
the  pond,  and  a  kindly  fate  had  decreed  that  a  fir 
tree  should  fall  at  just  this  spot.  What  a  combi- 
nation !  No  wonder  that  this  was  a  favourite  tryst- 
ing  place  for  big  trout!  But  it  had  its  disad- 
vantages, as  any  one  will  recognize  who  has  under- 
taken to  direct  the  movements  of  a  trout  that  has 
a  hook  in  its  mouth  and  a  tree-top  handy.  The 
Junior  hooked  a  lusty  fellow  and,  with  some  aid 
from  the  Senior,  managed  to  get  him  to  the  top 
of  the  water,  and  then  there  was  a  lashing  and  a 
splashing  that  caused  the  small  boy  to  open  his 
eyes  in  astonishment.  Another  instant  and  the 
commotion  was  at  an  end,  the  trout  was  gone — and 
the  hook  left  fondly  clinging  to  a  submerged  limb. 
Silence — and  then  the  Junior  remarked  philo- 
sophically, "  That  fish  spread  his  wings  and  flew 
away."  Let  no  one  fancy  that  the  young  man 
accepted  defeat  as  his  portion,  for  a  little  later  he 
captured,  by  his  own  unaided  prowess,  two  trout 
that  must  have  weighed,  together,  at  least  four 
ounces.  These  were  carefully  wrapped  in  paper 
and  formed  a  portion  of  his  next  morning's  meal. 


106  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

We  submit  that  a  well-trained  Preacheress 
should  spend  the  summer  vacation  sitting  on  the 
hotel  piazza  busy  with  her  "  tatting."  (Don't  read 
that  "  tattling,"  please.)  But  there  is  at  least  one 
of  this  honoured  class  who,  at  certain  intervals, 
abjures  fancy  work  and  insists  upon  going  fishing. 
This  aforesaid  assistant  pastor  and  her  young 
daughter  did,  upon  a  certain  day  in  August,  with 
malice  aforethought,  sit  on  the  logs  at  Ive's  Mill 
and  most  wilfully  and  maliciously  deceive  some 
forty  innocent  and  confiding  trout.  Then,  when 
the  slaughter  was  done  for  that  afternoon,  these 
two,  with  the  Senior  and  the  Junior,  the  Judge 
and  two  young  friends,  sat  on  the  grass  by  the  sing- 
ing brook,  just  where  some  great  trees  cast  their 
shadows,  and  regaled  themselves  with  the  lunch  so 
kindly  provided  by  our  hostess. 

One  day  the  Preacher  was  left  to  himself.  The 
Judge  was  away  on  business,  the  Preacheress  felt 
no  stir  of  ambition  towards  piscatorial  conquests, 
and  the  desolate  man  was  compelled  by  force  of 
circumstances  to  go  it  alone.  That  was  the  day 
when  he  discovered  the  unexpected  resources  of 
Matheson's  Bridge.  This  bridge  spans  the  stream 
at  the  head  of  Dixon's  Pond.  It  is  not  a  public 
highway  and  is  used  only  by  the  owner  of  the 
farm.  The  water  has  worn  down  the  bed  of  the 
stream  until  there  is  a  depth  of  some  four  feet, 
and  it  occurred  to  the  Preacher  that  here  was  a 
likely  place  for  good-sized  trout.     Warily  he  ap- 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  NOD  107 

proached  and  cast  from  the  upper  side,  letting  his 
lure  float  down  under  the  bridge  and  then  gently 
drawing  it  up  the  stream.  The  next  instant  he 
knew  that  his  intuitions  had  not  deceived  him.  A 
struggle,  and  then  a  glorious  trout  lay  glistening 
in  the  sunshine.  The  farmer,  who  was  waging  a 
war  of  extermination  against  potato  bugs  on  a 
neighbouring  hillside,  came  down  and  lent  his 
countenance  to  the  stranger  poaching  on  his  pre- 
serves. To  make  it  short,  from  under  that  bridge 
that  afternoon  came  twelve  trout  that  weighed  not 
less  than  ten  pounds. 

One  more  experience  must  be  told.  The  Judge, 
the  Preacher  and  the  Southerner  had  gone  up  the 
de  Sable  River  at  high  tide  in  a  dory.  Their  theory 
was  that  after  fishing  around  Dixon's  Mill  they 
would  float  back  on  the  receding  tide.  The  theory 
as  to  the  fishing  and  the  receding  of  the  tide 
proved  trustworthy;  but  the  floating  was  a  delu- 
sion. The  fact  is,  they  fished  too  long,  the  tide 
had  gone  out,  and  the  dory  would  float  only  as  it 
was  dragged.  The  Southerner  declared  that  he 
was  incapacitated  for  violent  physical  exertion,  and 
furnished  his  share  of  the  necessary  toil  in  the 
shape  of  large  chunks  of  advice.  As  a  self-acting 
dispenser  of  gratuitous  counsel  he  was  immense. 
Behold  the  Judge  at  one  end  of  the  boat  and  the 
Preacher  at  the  other,  shoes  and  stockings  off, 
trousers  rolled  above  the  knees,  tugging  and  strain- 
ing at  that  heavy  boat  to  induce  it  to  float  in  three 


108  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

inches  of  water!  When  they  were  fairly  stuck 
fast  and  it  looked  as  if  the  boat  could  never  be 
stirred  again  until  floated  by  the  next  tide,  the  re- 
proving voice  of  the  passenger  would  be  heard 
assuring  the  perspiring  propellers  that  it  was  all 
their  own  fault;  that  if  they  had  kept  a  little  this 
way  or  to  that  side,  all  would  have  been  well.  As 
they  listened,  the  wonder  grew  in  their  minds  that 
Job  ever  allowed  the  friends  who  visited  him  in  the 
capacity  of  an  advisory  committee  to  escape  with 
their  lives.  But  it  takes  more  than  a  heavy  dory 
and  an  unappreciative  passenger  to  discourage  men 
who  are  firm  believers  in  the  perseverance  of  the 
saints,  and  the  Judge  and  the  Preacher  hauled  their 
burden  through  a  mile  of  mud  and  water,  and  live 
to  tell  the  tale. 

Fair  Prince  Edward  Island!  Across  the  years 
the  Preacher  sees  your  smiling  fields  and  sober 
woods  and  hears  the  beat  of  the  surf  and  the  tinkle 
of  silver  streams.  Land  of  trout !  Land  of  peace ! 
Land  of  Nod ! 


ON 

BOTH 

COASTS 


IX 


ON  BOTH  COASTS 


S  an  old  proverb  goes,  "It  is  the 
unexpected  that  happens."  This 
ancient  saw,  seemed  to  find  illus- 
tration when  some  one  called  out, 
as  we  were  sitting  at  breakfast, 
"  Come  out  and  see  this  big 
trout !  "  We  were  on  the  St.  Johns  River  and  the 
steamer  had  tied  up  at  a  landing  to  take  on  wood. 
A  trout  in  Florida !  Somehow  that  experience  had 
not  been  among  our  anticipations  when  we  planned 
the  trip ;  but  why  should  not  the  unexpected  happen 
in  Florida  as  well  as  elsewhere?  Knowing  that  it 
is  never  safe  to  be  too  skeptical  concerning  any 
statement  which  concerns  fishing  or  fish,  we  joined 
the  company  of  investigators.  On  the  pier  was  a 
lad  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  holding  up  for  inspection 
a  fish  that  was,  indeed,  big,  but  to  northern  eyes 
gave  no  indications  of  being  a  trout.     It  was  a 

ill 


112  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

giant  "  big-mouth  "  bass,  and  the  lad's  assertion 
that  it  weighed  twelve  pounds  seemed  quite  prob- 
able. It  seems  ridiculous  to  call  the  handsome 
speckled  denizens  of  clear,  mountain  streams,  and 
the  brown,  ugly  frequenter  of  the  muddy  St.  Johns 
by  the  same  name,  but  there  is  no  law  forbidding 
such  trespass.  When  we  reach  the  coast  we  find 
the  weakfish  has  also  been  transformed  into  a  trout. 
The  "  dead  rivers  "  that  abound  along  the  St. 
Johns  are  well  named,  although  they  are  not  rivers 
at  all,  but  bayous.  They  have  no  perceptible 
current,  and  the  stagnant  water  furnishes  a  most 
satisfactory  habitat  for  alligators.  One  day,  when 
we  had  committed  ourselves  to  the  care  of  a  negro 
boatman,  we  spent  a  forenoon  in  one  of  these  dead 
rivers,  catching  an  occasional  bass  and  shooting 
curlew  and  fox  squirrels.  Passing  a  tree-top  that 
had  fallen  into  the  water,  the  boatman  told  us  that 
he  had  seen  a  number  of  little  'gators  drop  into 
the  water  as  we  approached,  and  said  that  he  would 
catch  us  some  if  we  wished.  Rowing  quietly  up 
to  the  tree-top,  he  watched  the  surface  of  the  water 
for  a  little  time  and  then,  making  a  quick  grab, 
held  up  a  little  wriggling  alligator  some  eight  or 
ten  inches  long.  This  was  repeated  until  he  had 
captured  five,  and  we  informed  him  that  these  were 
all  we  could  use  to  advantage.  It  is  said  that  the 
relentless  warfare  waged  against  the  alligator  by 
tourists  and  native  hunters  who  covet  his  hide  has 
made  him  a  rarity,  at  least  along  the  lines  of  travel, 


ON  BOTH  COASTS  115 

but  twenty-five  years  ago,  no  one  who  visited 
Florida  need  fail  of  a  sight  of  this  ugly  saurian. 
Coming  home  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  spent 
with  the  negro  boatman,  our  attention  was  called 
to  the  swaying  of  the  marsh  grass  not  far  distant, 
and  the  negro  informed  us  that  it  was  caused,  he 
thought,  by  an  alligator.  With  guns  at  cock  and 
all  ready  to  open  a  fusillade  on  the  first  appearance 
of  the  game,  a  cautious  approach  was  made  until 
we  were  alongside  the  grass.  Then,  as  we  were 
standing  in  the  boat,  peering  this  way  and  that  in 
an  effort  to  spy  our  victim,  there  was  an  unexpected 
rush,  the  boat  was  given  a  whack  that  almost 
caused  the  hunters  to  fall  overboard,  and  we  had 
a  fleeting  glimpse  of  our  quarry  as  he  disappeared 
in  the  waters  of  the  river.  The  performance  was 
so  unexpected  and  so  soon  over  that  not  a  shot 
was  fired. 

For  many  years  the  Indian  River  country  has 
been  a  prime  favourite  with  those  who  visit  Florida. 
The  so-called  river  is  really  a  long,  narrow  arm  of 
the  sea,  and  at  some  points,  a  walk  of  five  minutes 
brings  one  from  the  river  to  the  ocean.  The  soil 
along  this  river  is  exceedingly  fertile,  and  some  of 
the  finest  orange  groves  in  the  state  are  found  at 
Rock  Ledge  and  farther  south.  This  body  of 
water  furnishes  ideal  conditions  for  sailing,  hunt- 
ing and  fishing,  and  nothing  can  be  more  delightful 
than  a  cruise  of  a  few  days  with  congenial  com- 
panions.   We  hired  a  sharpie,  a  flat-bottomed  sail- 


114  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

boat  of  such  light  draft  that  it  is  commonly  said  of 
it  that  it  "  will  sail  in  a  dew,"  and  with  a  generous 
supply  of  oranges  on  board  set  off  from  Rock 
Ledge  towards  the  south.  Some  fishing,  some 
duck-shooting,  much  idling  and  orange  eating, 
served  to  make  the  days  pass  like  a  happy  dream. 
When  night  came  it  was  not  difficult  to  find  some 
winter-hotel  with  comfortable  accommodations. 
Not  infrequently  night  had  fallen  before  we 
reached  the  desired  haven,  and  the  water  would 
turn  to  silver  as  the  mullet  darted  here  and  there 
before  the  slow-moving  boat. 

One  day  we  anchored  at  the  mouth  of  the  Banana 
River,  that  members  of  the  party  who  had  never 
seen  the  ocean,  might  walk  across  the  narrow  spit 
of  land  that  separates  between  the  river  and  the 
Atlantic.  One  of  the  company,  to  whom  the  sea 
was  no  novelty,  elected  to  remain  on  board,  moved 
to  this  decision,  in  part  at  least,  by  the  fact  that  he 
had  secured  some  bait  the  night  before  that  as  yet 
he  had  been  unable  to  use.  Left  to  himself,  he 
began  operations  at  once,  and  soon  landed  a  seven- 
pound  channel  bass.  This  seemed  pretty  good  to 
the  lone  fisherman,  but  he  had  no  sooner  put  on  a 
fresh  piece  of  mullet  and  thrown  out  than  another 
tug  at  his  line  assured  him  that  "the  best  is  yet 
to  be."  Despite  the  angler's  most  skilful  manipu- 
lations that  fish  had  its  own  way  at  first.  It  went 
down,  down,  until  the  anxious  fisherman  saw  that 
the  line  remaining  on  the  reel  must  be  measured 


ON  BOTH  COASTS  1,15 

by  inches.  Then  it  decided  upon  a  reversal,  and 
came  up  so  rapidly  that  only  by  reeling  madly  was 
the  line  kept  taut.  After  that  the  fish  took  a  notion 
to  circumnavigate  the  boat,  which  he  proceeded  to 
do  in  spite  of  protests  from  the  fisherman.  When 
one  is  fishing  from  a  row-boat  with  anchor  safely 
stowed  away  in  the  bow,  there  can  be  no  serious 
objections  urged  if  the  fish  decides  to  describe  a 
circle  about  the  boat;  but  on  a  sail-boat  at  anchor, 
the  case  is  radically  different.  It  is  not  easy  to 
manipulate  your  rod  successfully  under  the  anchor 
rope,  crawl  under  the  boom,  keep  clear  of  the 
rudder,  and  never,  for  a  second,  give  the  fish  the 
least  slack  line.  One  such  experience  is  more  than 
enough,  and  when  that  fish  repeated  the  perform- 
ance three  times  he  almost  exhausted  the  fisher- 
man's patience.  But  all  things  have  an  end,  even 
the  antics  of  a  fish  that  objects  to  being  caught, 
and  at  last  the  sturdy  fighter  began  to  grow  amen- 
able to  discipline.  Slowly,  line  was  reeled  in  and, 
after  many  flurries  and  plunges,  he  was  landed 
safely  in  the  boat.  Natives  assured  the  captor  that 
eighteen  pounds  was  not  very  large  for  a  channel 
bass;  but  even  their  efforts  to  minimize  the  im- 
portance of  the  event  did  not  entirely  destroy  the 
angler's  satisfaction. 

If  there  is  a  more  uninteresting  ride  anywhere 
than  that  from  Palatka  to  Charlotte  Harbour,  we  do 
not  care  to  find  it.  Scrub  palmetto,  pines,  sand, 
and  then  sand,  pines  and  scrub  palmetto,  until  the 


116  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

traveller  almost  wishes  the  engine  would  jump  the 
track  or  bandits  hold  up  the  train  to  break  the 
deadly  monotony.  After  all,  that  day  is  a  red- 
letter  one,  for  during  it  the  writer  made  a  friend. 
At  noon,  the  train  stopped  near  a  lonely  building 
in  the  pine  woods  to  allow  the  passengers  to  dine. 
Other  bills  of  fare  may  be  forgotten,  but  the  menu 
that  noon  is  imperishably  engraved  on  the  tablets 
of  memory.  Who  would  not  remember  a  meal 
consisting  of  saleratus  biscuits — with  strong  em- 
phasis upon  the  saleratus — "  sides  "  of  pork  and 
sweet  potato  pie  ?  It  is  conceivable  that  even  these 
may  be  palatable  when  well  cooked,  but  the  ma- 
terials used  that  day  had  evidently  had  no  fair 
chance  to  reveal  their  excellence  when  skilfully 
treated. 

Among  the  passengers  was  a  tall,  somewhat 
gaunt  man,  with  long,  brown  hair  and  a  straggling 
beard  just  showing  a  hint  of  grey.  The  face  was 
rugged  but  kindly,  and  the  eyes  deep-set.  One 
felt,  instinctively,  that  here  was  a  man  of  power 
and  goodness  whom  it  would  be  a  privilege  to 
know,  and  when  a  chance  remark  made  by  him  to 
the  traveller  from  the  north  gave  an  excuse  for 
further  conversation  it  was  eagerly  seized  upon. 
It  was  not  until  the  train  was  approaching  Char- 
lotte Harbour  that  we  learned  the  name  of  our 
travelling  companion,  a  name  familiar,  then  and 
now,  the  world  over,  among  those  who  look  and 
long  for  a  better  day  for  man — Edward  Everett 


ON  BOTH  COASTS  117 

Hale.  His  destination  was  the  same  as  our  own — 
Pine  Island — where  we  spent  three  delightful 
weeks,  the  greatest  pleasure  of  which  was  his 
companionship.  After  we  had  been  at  the  little 
hotel  on  Pine  Island  two  or  three  days,  the  pro- 
prietor approached  the  writer  with  something  of 
unusual  timidity  in  his  manner,  and  ventured  the 
information  that  Doctor  Hale  would  preach  in  the 
school  house  the  next  Sunday.  "  Would  you  dare 
to  assist  in  the  service?"  he  hesitatingly  asked. 
"  Dare  to  take  part  in  the  service  ?  Why  not  ? 
What  danger  would  there  be  ?  "  "  But  you  know 
he  is  a  Unitarian,  and  I  understand  you  are  a 
Baptist.  I  didn't  know  but  some  one  would  make 
trouble  for  you  if  they  should  hear  that  you  had 
joined  in  a  service  with  a  Unitarian,"  said  the 
kind-hearted  landlord.  When  assured  that  we 
were  quite  ready  to  run  the  risk,  he  went  out  with 
beaming  face  to  tack  up  his  notices.  Among  many 
sermons  heard  from  many  preachers,  good,  bad 
and  indifferent,  the  outline  of  Doctor  Hale's  sermon 
on  that  Sunday  morning,  in  the  little  school  house, 
is  the  only  one  that  refuses  to  be  forgotten.  He 
chose  for  treatment  the  story  of  the  rich  young 
man  who  came  to  Jesus  asking  what  he  should  do 
to  gain  eternal  life,  and  gave  his  interpretation  of 
the  true  life.  In  a  quiet,  conversational  manner, 
he  set  forth  his  conception  of  the  ideal  for  the 
individual  and  for  society  as  living  "  with  God,  for 
man,  in  heaven."    The  points  were  driven  home  by 


118  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

the  use  of  homely  but  telling  illustrations,  and, 
after  the  passing  of  many  years,  one,  at  least,  of 
those  who  listened  that  day,  feels  the  glow  and 
thrill  begotten  of  this  fine  setting  forth  of  the 
possibilities  in  manhood. 

One  of  the  most  vivid  pictures  of  Doctor  Hale 
which  those  days  furnished  is,  as  he  stands  on  the 
government  pier  at  Sanibel  Island  fishing  for 
sheepshead.  He  wore  a  long,  linen  duster,  used  a 
cane-pole  without  a  reel,  and  the  fish  that  came  to 
his  hook  were  usually  made  to  describe  the  arc  of  a 
circle,  landing  with  a  resounding  thump  on  the 
pier.  After  fishing  had  ceased  to  be  attractive, 
owing  to  the  undue  eagerness  of  the  sheepshead 
to  be  caught,  the  party  wandered  across  the  island 
to  the  outer  shore  where  the  waters  of  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico  came  tumbling  in  upon  the  beach,  and 
shells  were  numerous  and  beautiful.  On  the  way 
one  bought  a  fine  specimen  of  the  saw  of  a  saw- 
fish from  the  Cuban  fisherman,  and  another  shot 
a  diamond-back  rattlesnake  which  lay  coiled  in  the 
path.  We  were  becalmed  that  night  on  the  sail 
home,  and  Doctor  Hale's  varied  experiences  were 
drawn  upon  to  alleviate  the  monotony  of  the  long 
wait  for  a  favourable  wind. 

The  rattlers  were  treated  with  the  utmost  re- 
spect by  all  the  guests  after  a  resident  physician 
had  told  us  that  in  an  experience  of  more  than 
twenty  years  in  southern  Florida  he  had  never 
known  any  one  to  survive  the  bite  of  a  diamond- 


ON  BOTH  COASTS  119 

back  rattlesnake.  When  one  of  the  visitors  would 
go  up  the  island  after  deer  he  preferred  to  mount 
a  pony  and  undertake  to  shoot  from  its  back  rather 
than  to  trudge  through  the  dense  undergrowth 
when  any  step  might  bring  him  within  striking 
distance  of  this  dreaded  reptile.  When  a  gentle- 
man from  Boston  related  an  experience  which  he 
had  two  years  before  at  the  very  point  where  the 
hotel  had  since  been  built,  the  reluctance  on  the 
part  of  the  visitors  to  come  into  close  quarters 
with  Florida  rattlers  sensibly  increased.  He  was 
one  of  a  party  of  four  who  were  cruising  along 
the  gulf  coast  in  a  sharpie.  They  landed  at  the 
foot  of  Pine  Island,  and  two  of  the  party  started 
up  the  island  after  deer.  They  walked  about  a 
hundred  yards  apart,  and  had  not  gone  far  when 
one  heard  his  companion's  gun  go  off  and  called 
out  asking  what  he  had  shot.  Getting  no  reply, 
he  hastened  to  his  friend,  whom  he  found  on  the 
ground  and  by  him  a  rattlesnake  which  he  had 
shot.  The  snake  had  struck  him  in  the  calf  of  the 
leg,  and  in  spite  of  everything  that  could  be  done, 
the  man  died  before  night. 

The  first  visit  of  a  northerner  to  this  section  is 
certain  to  be  filled  with  novel  experiences.  Never 
before  has  he  seen  oysters  growing  on  trees,  but 
here,  at  low  tide,  this  phenomenon  may  be  observed 
at  any  time.  The  so-called  "  coon  "  oysters  attach 
themselves  to  the  boughs  which  droop  over  and  into 
the  water  at  high  tide,  and  when  the  tide  has  gone 


120  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

out  they  are  left  hanging  in  great  masses,  high,  if 
not  dry.  The  little  fiddler  crabs,  swarming  by 
thousands  in  the  sand  of  the  beach,  waving  their 
single  arm  frantically  in  the  air,  were  an  unfailing 
source  of  amusement.  Pelicans  abounded,  and  a 
part  of  the  day's  program  was  to  feed  mullet  to  the 
two  tame  ones  which  made  their  headquarters  on 
the  pier.  Through  long  practice  and  because  of  the 
capacious  bag  which  they  carry,  they  could  catch, 
with  almost  unfailing  accuracy,  every  fish  pitched 
in  their  direction.  Every  day  some  of  the  visitors 
fished  from  the  pier  for  sharks.  Probably  this 
sport  has  its  fascination  for  those  who  enjoy  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  when  it  is  considered  that  from 
this  same  pier  one  might  catch  many  varieties  of 
excellent  food  fish,  the  passion  for  shark  fishing 
becomes  an  impenetrable  mystery. 

Probably  no  one  who  fishes  at  all  can  withstand 
the  temptation  to  try  his  hand  at  tarpon  when  visit- 
ing the  Gulf  of  Mexico  waters.  One  hears  such 
stories  of  the  gaminess  of  this  fish,  of  the  fight, 
prolonged  through  many  hours,  at  times,  which  is 
necessary  to  land  it,  that  he  soon  contracts  the 
tarpon  fever.  In  spite  of  a  certain  reluctance  to 
go  in  pursuit  of  fish  which  are  good  for  nothing 
when  caught,  fish  that  have  never  injured  us  and 
against  which  we  hold  no  malice,  a  sunny  morning 
saw  the  writer  and  a  boatman  starting  out  for 
tarpon.  We  anchored  at  a  favourable  point,  the 
hook  was  baited  with  half  a  mullet,  tied  on  as  well 


ON  BOTH  COASTS  121 

as  hooked,  and  then  came  the  wait.  It  was  not 
long,  for  in  less  than  half  an  hour  the  fisherman 
announced  to  his  oarsman,  "  I  feel  something." 
"  Let  him  have  it,"  urged  the  boatman,  for  one 
secret  of  successful  fishing  for  tarpon  is  to  give  the 
fish  plenty  of  time  to  gorge  the  bait.  After  what 
seemed  to  be  an  interminable  time  the  oarsman 
said,  "  Now  strike  him."  And  strike  him  we  did, 
with  the  most  astonishing  result.  No  sooner  had 
the  fisherman  struck,  than  a  mountain  of  burnished 
silver  flung  itself  out  of  the  water.  The  oarsman 
said  it  was  a  tarpon  of  average  size;  but  to  the 
fisherman  he  looked  to  be  fifty  feet  long  and  to 
weigh  a  ton.  Just  how  large  he  was  will  never  be 
known,  for  with  vicious  shakes  of  his  head  he 
flung  the  baited  hook  at  least  fifteen  feet  away. 
Disappointed?  Not  especially.  Fortunately  we 
had  never  really  felt  that  our  happiness  depended 
upon  catching  a  tarpon. 


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E  want  a  quiet  place,  free  from 
dudes  and  mosquitoes,  with  good 
food  and  good  fishing."  Thus 
spoke  the  tired  city  man  to  his 
friend,  the  Preacher,  and  the 
friend  answered,  "  I  have  heard 
of  such  a  haven  of  rest,  far  in  the  east,  on  the 
shores  of  Moosehead  Lake."  So  it  came  to  pass 
that  we — Nell,  little  Sue  and  I — made  the  long 
journey  of  1,500  miles  on  the  strength  of  a  hear- 
say. Risky?  Yes,  but  the  results  amply  justified 
our  faith.  We  found  the  Peaceful  Valley  and  the 
House  of  Rest. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  long,  rambling  structure, 
designed  according  to  no  known  law  save  that  of 
utility.  Additions  have  been  made  from  time  to 
time  to  the  original  farm-house,  resulting  in  a 
delightfully  unconventional  and  straggly  building; 

125 


126  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

an  illustration  in  wood  of  the  law  of  evolution. 
Great  barns  stand  guard  on  the  east  and  south. 
Hard  by,  a  cold  brook  gurgles  and  laughs  on  its 
way  to  the  lake  a  few  rods  distant.  Take  your 
stand  facing  the  west,  and  declare  your  vision. 
Fifteen  miles  away,  on  the  western  border  of  the 
lake,  Squaw  Mountain  lifts  its  ragged  line  against 
the  sky.  On  the  left,  and  close  at  hand,  bold  hills 
bound  the  view,  clothed  with  timber  to  their  very 
tips.  Far  to  the  north,  Spencer  Bay  Mountain  lies 
like  a  giant  haystack.  The  waters  of  the  lake 
dimple  and  flash  in  the  sunlight,  the  air  is  filled 
with  the  drowsy  hum  of  insects,  and  over  all  is 
peace.  In  the  words  of  the  ancient  hymn,  one 
sings, 

"  This  is  the  place  I  long  have  sought 
And  mourned  because  I  found  it  not." 

Now  that  we  are  here,  what  shall  we  do  ?  Rest  ? 
Yes,  but  it  cannot  be  the  rest  of  inactivity.  The 
woods  are  calling  to  us  and  the  waters  tempt  us. 
The  trout  are  jumping  in  the  pool  just  beyond  the 
big  stump,  and  a  deer  is  feeding  in  the  meadow 
yonder.  Great  herons  fly  lazily  along  the  shores 
of  the  bay,  or  go  on  frog-hunting  expeditions 
among  the  rushes.  Surely,  there  is  something 
better  to  do  than  to  loll  on  the  porch,  and  the  first 
important  task  is  to  interview  those  impertinent 
trout.  Leaders  are  brought  out  and  soaked,  flies 
selected,  the  Leonard  rod  jointed  and  everything 


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ON  TVIOOSEHEAD  LAKE  127 

made  ready.  We  start  for  the  brook  which  seems 
to  be  murmuring  an  invitation,  only  to  run  against 
a  very  formidable  obstacle  in  the  shape  of  the 
Maine  game  law.  "  All  streams  flowing  into 
Moosehead  Lake  are  closed  indefinitely."  Only 
nine  words  gently  spoken  by  the  landlord,  but  they 
were  of  tremendous  significance.  A  journey  half- 
way across  the  continent  to  fish  streams  that  cannot 
be  fished.  The  arm  of  the  fisherman  is  palsied, 
and  his  tongue  cleaves  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  his  bright  visions?  A  dark- 
ness like  that  of  Egypt  settles  down  upon  him,  and 
all  joy  flees  from  his  heart.  Silently  he  anathema- 
tizes the  railroad  companies  for  failing  to  find 
space  in  their  attractive  circulars  for  this  important 
piece  of  information.  But  just  when  his  gloom  is 
deepest,  a  ray  of  light  appears.  "  Do  you  see 
that  red  post?"  says  the  landlord,  pointing  down 
the  stream.  "  That  marks  the  boundary  between 
the  brook  and  the  lake.  Below  it  you  can  fish  to 
your  heart's  content." 

Really,  it  was  not  as  bad  as  might  be  supposed. 
Fish  love  the  mouth  of  a  stream,  and  this  mouth 
was  of  generous  proportions  and  largely  patronized 
by  the  trout.  Many  a  happy  hour  we  spent  on  that 
stretch  of  water  below  the  post.  Possibly,  in  the 
eagerness  of  pursuit,  the  fly  sometimes  fell  over 
the  line  into  the  forbidden  waters ;  but  it  is  not  easy 
to  determine  the  exact  location  of  an  invisible 
boundary,  and  the  trout  had  no  business  to  gather 


128  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

in  town-meeting  just  over  the  line  and  wink  de- 
risively at  the  irritated  fisherman.  But,  on  the 
whole,  we  sought  to  obey  the  law;  not  alone  from 
respect  for  the  law,  mingled  with  fear  of  the  game- 
warden,  but,  as  well,  because  the  best  fishing  was 
below  the  post.  Here  was  a  half-mile  of  water 
frequented  by  many  noble  trout.  We  will  say 
nothing  of  the  many  ordinary  trout  taken  from 
this  stretch  of  stream,  but  the  story  of  the  fisher- 
man's experience  with  one  wary  old  grandpa  of 
the  Salvelinns  Fontinalis  family  must  be  told. 

He  lived  in  a  deep  pool  bordered  by  rushes, 
where  a  sunken  tree-top  afforded  an  excellent  hid- 
ing-place. Many  smaller  trout  had  been  lured 
from  this  retreat  before  the  patriarch  gave  any 
sign  of  his  presence.  One  day  a  huge  swirl  and  a 
heavy  tug  set  the  angler's  nerves  to  tingling;  but 
the  line  came  back  limp,  and  the  disappointed  dis- 
ciple of  the  immortal  Izaak  went  to  the  house  to 
tell  of  the  four-pound  trout  that  he  had  hooked 
and  lost.  A  week  passed,  during  which  time  the 
hopeful  fisherman  whipped  every  inch  of  that  water 
many  times,  taking  not  a  few,  but  hearing  nothing 
from  the  veteran  for  whom  he  longed.  Then, 
moved  by  hunger  or  contempt,  or  both,  the  old 
fellow  snapped  at  a  "  Montreal,"  and  the  battle 
was  on.  When  victory  for  the  fisherman  seemed 
certain  and  the  landing  net  was  almost  under  the 
tired  fish,  he  gave  a  mighty  surge  and  was  gone. 
This  time  he  weighed  a  plump  five  pounds  on  the 


ON  MOOSEHEAD  LAKE  129 

scales  of  the  angler's  imagination.  Other  days 
passed,  and  then,  one  evening  just  as  the  sun  was 
setting,  a  "  Silver  Doctor  "  overcame  the  wariness 
of  the  spotted  warrior,  and  again  the  issue  was 
joined  between  man  and  trout.  The  fish  knew  that 
there  was  safety  in  the  sunken  tree-top,  and  made 
heroic  efforts  to  reach  it;  but  the  fisherman  knew 
this  also,  and  met  every  rush  by  giving  the  butt  of 
the  rod.  The  boarders  on  the  hotel  veranda  saw 
the  conflict  and  shouted  encouragement  to  the 
anxious  angler.  Canoeists  stopped  at  a  respectful 
distance  to  watch  the  struggle.  Nell  was  at  the 
oars  and  kept  the  boat  well  out  in  the  middle  of 
the  pool.  The  light  rod  bent  almost  double  as  the 
sturdy  fighter  made  his  great  rushes  for  liberty. 
The  reel  buzzed  as  the  fish  carried  out  the  line,  or 
clicked  gently  as  the  fisherman  worked  the  captive 
towards  the  boat. 

Any  one  of  a  great  number  of  things  may  happen 
at  such  a  time.  The  hook  may  tear  out,  slack  line 
is  fatal,  the  line  may  break,  the  snood  or  leader 
may  part,  the  rod  may  give  way,  an  earthquake 
may  chance  along;  in  short,  there  is  no  catastrophe 
which  is  not  liable  to  occur  when  you  have  a  big 
fish  at  the  other  end  of  a  line.  The  worst  of  it  is 
that  all  these  possibilities  visit  the  mind  of  the 
fisherman  at  once.  There  is  one  other  possibility; 
namely,  that  you  may  land  the  fish.  That  is  just 
what  happened  this  time;  and  when  he  was  fairly 
in  the  net  that  fisherman  let  forth  a  whoop  which 


130  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

must  have  scared  the  foxes  on  Deer  Island,  three 
miles  away.  How  much  did  he  weigh?  Such  in- 
quisitiveness  is  really  painful;  but  if  you  must 
know,  the  scales  said  two  pounds,  fourteen  ounces. 
All  fishermen  will  understand  that  a  fish  shrinks 
rapidly  after  being  taken  from  the  water,  and  it 
must  have  been  at  least  ten  minutes  after  his 
capture  before  he  was  weighed.  This  accounts  for 
some  things. 

Will  some  wise  man  rise  up  and  explain  the 
puzzling  vagaries  of  the  trout?  Why  does  he 
strike  freely  at  a  certain  fly  one  day,  and  entirely 
ignore  it  on  the  day  following?  Why  will  he  sulk 
for  hours,  and  then  make  the  water  boil  with  his 
acrobatic  exercises?  One  morning,  when  all  the 
signs  were  propitious,  Mr.  D.  and  the  writer  sought 
the  mouth  of  South  Brook,  a  place  famous  in  all 
this  region  for  the  number  and  size  of  its  trout. 
Mrs.  N.,  a  veteran  angler  and  successful,  was  just 
leaving  in  deep  disgust.  She  had  been  fishing  since 
five  o'clock  and  not  a  strike  had  rewarded  her 
patient  toil.  One  hour,  two  hours,  we  cast  in  vain. 
We  might  as  well  have  been  fishing  in  the  Dead 
Sea  so  far  as  any  signs  of  trout  were  concerned. 
Under  the  overhanging  alders,  by  the  side  of  old 
logs,  up  close  to  the  bridge,  down  where  the  stream 
meets  the  bay,  back  and  forth  we  went,  but  all  in 
vain.  At  last,  over  by  the  big  rock,  a  splash  is 
heard  and  the  widening  ripples  tell  that  a  trout  has 
jumped.     Quietly  we  seek  the  spot.     When  some 


ON  MOOSEHEAD  LAKE  131 

forty  feet  away  the  flies  are  sent  on  their  mission, 
and  then  follows  an  experience  that  cannot  be  put 
into  words.  For  fifteen  minutes  the  water  fairly 
foams,  as  the  eager  fish  leap  for  the  fantastic  cre- 
ations which  are  supposed  to  resemble  different 
forms  of  insect  life.  The  sport  is  fast  and  furious. 
Ten  feet  of  line  is  as  good  as  fifty,  and  a  frayed 
fly  is  as  acceptable  as  a  fresh  one.  They  seem  to 
be  fighting  for  the  first  chance  at  anything  that  is 
offered.  Singles  reward  every  cast,  and  doubles 
are  not  infrequent.  Three  of  the  number  taken, 
go  over  a  pound  and  a  half  each,  and  not  one  falls 
under  half  a  pound.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  this 
delirium,  and  then  it  is  all  over.  We  whip  in  vain 
for  another  hour,  and  turn  towards  the  hotel, 
puzzled  but  happy. 

Only  a  little  time  have  we  been  in  the  Peaceful 
Valley,  when  moose  stories  begin  to  circulate.  The 
rumour  goes  that  Mr.  P.,  a  camper,  has  seen  a  bull 
moose  in  the  north  meadow,  and  watched  him  feed 
for  more  than  an  hour.  Louise,  the  dining-room 
girl,  declares  that  she  frequently  sees  a  moose  feed- 
ing in  the  "  logan  "  when  she  rises  about  daybreak. 
(Will  some  etymologist  settle  the  derivation  of 
that  word  "  logan  "  ?  About  Moosehead  it  seems 
to  be  applied  to  a  bay  of  any  sort  or  condition.  Is 
it  a  corruption  of  "  lagoon  "  ?)  The  Higher  Critic 
kindly  calls  attention  to  the  evident  unreliability  of 
these  stories.  We  know  the  habits  of  the  moose. 
It  is  a  shy  animal,  and  seldom  comes  out  into  the 


132  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

open.  If  it  should  venture  out  it  most  certainly 
would  not  approach  a  summer  hotel.  Granting 
that  some  demented  specimen  might  visit  a  clearing 
in  which  is  a  hotel,  it  would  do  so  only  under  the 
protection  of  darkness.  The  stories  are  evidently 
mythical.  Only  a  few  days  later  the  Higher  Critic 
receives  a  distinct  jar  when  he  is  awakened  at  early 
dawn  one  morning  by  a  tapping  at  his  door  and 
hears  a  low  voice  saying,  M  There's  a  moose  in  the 
logan !  "  The  shadows  of  night  are  not  entirely 
gone,  but  it  is  light  enough  to  see  distinctly  the 
dark  object  standing  in  the  water  and  tearing  at 
the  lily-pads.  A  cow  ?  Too  large  and  too  high  at 
the  shoulders.  A  horse?  No  horse  ever  had  such 
ears  or  such  a  head.  Although  the  H.  C.  has  never 
before  seen  a  moose  outside  of  a  zoological  garden, 
one  glance  convinces  him  that  his  theory  is  seri- 
ously damaged. 

A  few  days  later,  as  the  guests  are  eating  their 
midday  meal,  the  small  boy  rushes  into  the  dining- 
room  and  shouts,  "  Moose  in  the  logan !  "  In  an 
incredibly  short  space  of  time  the  boarders  have 
exchanged  the  dining-room  for  the  garden  fence, 
and  are  looking  down  upon  such  a  sight  as  even 
dwellers  in  the  Peaceful  Valley  seldom  see.  In  the 
middle  of  the  logan,  and  not  more  than  forty  rods 
away,  stands  a  cow  moose  with  her  calf  by  her 
side.  The  mother  plunges  her  muzzle  into  the 
water  in  search  of  food,  lifts  her  head  and  munches 
for  a  time,  and  then  repeats  the  process.    All  the 


ON  MOOSEHEAD  LAKE  133 

time  the  tail  is  switching  at  the  flies,  and  the  great 
ears  are  slowly  moving  back  and  forth.  Neither 
mother  nor  child  seems  to  pay  any  attention  to 
the  spectators,  and  both  remain  perfectly  uncon- 
cerned until  the  small  boy  begins  to  whistle  and 
shout.  Then,  without  any  signs  of  fear,  they  walk 
out  of  the  water,  trot  slowly  across  the  meadow  and 
disappear  in  the  woods.  The  H.  C.  sadly  lays  his 
theory  away  in  the  mausoleum  where  so  many  of 
its  kindred  rest. 

By  this  time  some  reader  is  saying,  "  I  don't 
care  anything  about  the  moose,  and  less  about  the 
fishing.  Didn't  you  go  anywhere  ?  Didn't  you  see 
anything  worth  writing  about  ?  "  The  rebuke  is 
deserved,  and  the  writer  hastens  to  say  that  Moose- 
head  Lake  is  forty  miles  long  and  fifteen  miles 
across  in  the  widest  part,  having  an  estimated  shore- 
line of  something  like  400  miles.  We  saw  it  all, 
from  Greenville  to  Southeast  Carry;  but  he  would 
be  a  brave  man  or  a  rash  one,  who  would  undertake 
to  put  its  beauty  into  words.  We  drove  to  Roach 
River  and,  from  the  neighbouring  hilltop,  looked 
down  upon  the  sparkling  waters  of  Roach  Pond 
and  away  across  miles  of  forest  to  mighty 
Katahdin.  We  followed  the  old  lumber  roads  into 
the  depths  of  the  wood,  where  the  silence  is  broken 
only  by  the  chatter  of  the  red  squirrel  or  the  harsh 
cry  of  the  bluejay.  In  the  cool  evenings  we  sat 
around  the  wood  fire  that  crackled  and  leaped  in 
the  great  open  fireplace  in  the  House  of  Rest,  and 


134  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

heard  the  guides  tell  stories  which  would  have  made 
Baron  Munchausen  turn  green  with  envy.  We 
even  went  to  Mountain  Pond,  six  miles  away,  and 
all  the  way  up  hill.  No  wagon  could  make  that  trip 
and  survive.  The  lazy  man  had  a  chronic  dislike 
to  walking  six  miles  up  hill  on  a  hot  August  day, 
and,  in  a  moment  of  forget  fulness,  accepted  the 
loan  of  a  friend's  horse.  He  had  not  been  on  a 
horse  in  fifteen  years  and  had  forgotten  the  ec- 
centric motions  which  that  animal  makes  in  scramb- 
ling over  rocks  and  corduroy  roads.  However,  he 
lived  to  reach  Mountain  Pond,  and  spent  the  night 
with  three  friends  in  an  "  A  "  tent.  Don't  ask 
about  the  fishing,  for  it  is  a  subject  upon  which  the 
writer  does  not  care  to  dwell.  The  wind  blew  a 
gale  every  hour  of  the  day  spent  on  Mountain 
Pond,  and  you  can  safely  write  the  sign  of  equation 
between  the  results  of  that  day's  toil  and  those 
secured  by  Peter  and  his  companions  engaged  in  a 
similar  enterprise. 

That  was  a  never-to-be-forgotten  night.  The 
wind  roared  incessantly  among  the  trees,  the  tent 
shook  and  flapped,  an  obtrusive  root  insisted  upon 
being  familiar  with  our  ribs,  and,  to  complete  the 
enjoyment,  a  hedge-hog  made  us  a  call.  That  call 
afforded  the  one  bit  of  comfort  in  an  otherwise 
dreary  night.  To  see  the  artist,  in  scanty  attire, 
chasing  that  hedge-hog  around  the  camp-fire  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning  was  a  sight  to  warm 
the  cockles  of  the  heart.    To  the  artistic  temper- 


ON  MOOSEHEAD  LAKE  135 

ament  there  was  nothing  attractive  in  slaughter, 
but  if  the  well-armed  marauder  could  be  caught 
alive  and  taken  down  to  the  hotel,  that  would  be 
worth  while.  Finally,  a  well-aimed  blow  stunned 
the  animal  and  he  was  hastily  thrust  under  an 
empty  box  with  a  sufficient  number  of  stones  piled 
upon  it  to  prevent  it  from  being  overturned  by  any 
exertion  on  the  part  of  the  captive.  When  daylight 
came,  the  box  was  in  its  place,  but  the  hedge-hog 
had  gnawed  his  way  to  liberty.  That  we  did  not 
extract  his  teeth  before  imprisoning  him  was  a  fatal 
oversight. 


AMONG  THE 

CUT-THROATS 

OF 

LAKE  CHELAN 


XI 


AMONG  THE  CUT-THROATS  OF 
LAKE  CHELAN 

ON'T  be  frightened!  The  writer 
has  not  turned  desperado,  neither 
has  he  fallen  among  men  of  bloody 
practices.  In  order  that  all  minds 
may  be  set  at  rest  before  we  go 
further,  be  it  known  that  this  is 
but  a  fish  story  pure  and  simple.  The  brother  with 
the  melancholy  mind  and  ossified  piety  will  do  well 
to  stop  here  and  turn  to  "  Foxe's  Book  of  Mar- 
tyrs "  or  some  other  literature  of  that  order.  The 
elect  few  who  love  the  open,  rejoice  in  God's  out- 
of-doors  and  the  beauty  of  lake  and  mountain,  may 
safely  venture  to  read  this  frivolous  story  of  a  side- 
trip  made  by  one  of  the  delegates  to  a  church  con- 
vention. 

What    have    cut-throats    to    do    with    fishing? 
Patience  for  a  moment,  you  who  live  east  of  the 
139 


140  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

Mississippi !  The  Pacific  Coast  dwellers  will  need 
no  explanation,  but  for  the  benefit  of  the  unenlight- 
ened it  may  be  said  that  in  common  parlance  the 
"  Salmo  Clarkii "  is  known  as  a  "  cut-throat."  This 
appellation  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  character  of 
the  fish,  for  he  is  an  eminently  respectable  citizen 
of  the  watery  world,  but  is  due  to  the  presence  of 
a  blood-red  line  on  either  side  of  his  throat  which 
by  an  extreme  stretch  of  the  imagination  may  be 
made  to  resemble  a  bloody  cut.  It  is  said  that 
when  he  has  access  to  salt  water  the  cut-throat 
ranges  far  seaward,  in  which  case  he  loses  his 
black  spots  and  takes  on  a  coat  of  silver;  but  he 
still  holds  fast  to  his  crimson  necktie. 

Doubtless  the  next  question  will  be,  "  Where 
is  Lake  Chelan?"  If  you  are  too  indolent  to 
look  it  up  on  the  map  of  Washington,  follow  the- 
trail  of  the  fisherman.  He  took  the  Great  North- 
ern road  from  Seattle,  crossed  the  beautiful  Cas- 
cade Mountains  and  left  the  train  at  Wenatchee. 
It  is  alleged  in  a  multitude  of  highly  coloured 
circulars  that  this  is  the  "  home  of  the  big,  red 
apple."  A  trustful  habit  of  mind  makes  us  ready 
to  believe  this,  although  the  aforesaid  big,  red 
apple  was  not  at  home  when  we  were  there.  He 
is  expected  to  return  in  the  fall.  There  are 
orchards  and  orchards,  and  then  more  orchards. 

An  enthusiastic  friend  had  pictured  the  beauties 
of  the  Columbia  River  Valley,  and  when  we  took  the 
boat  at  Wenatchee  for  a  forty-mile  ride  up-stream, 


AMONG  THE  CUT-THROATS  141 

anticipation  stood  on  tip-toe.  To  be  sure,  aside 
from  the  orchards  there  was  nothing  attractive 
in  the  country  around  Wenatchee,  but  we  felt  sure 
that  it  would  be  "  better  farther  on."  But  it 
wasn't.  Possibly  our  aesthetic  sense  had  suffered 
from  a  stroke  of  paralysis;  if  not,  a  muddy  river, 
sage  brush  and  alkali  dust,  brown,  treeless  hills 
and  a  general  air  of  desolation  do  not  combine 
to  form  an  entrancing  picture.  To  be  sure,  there 
are  spots  of  green  where  fruit-trees  have  been 
planted  and  water  from  the  river  or  from  some 
irrigation  ditch  is  led  in  and  out  through  the 
orchard.  But  to  one  who  has  seen  the  beauty  of 
an  eastern  landscape,  before  whose  eyes  comes  a 
vision  of  stately  trees  and  luxuriant  meadows  and 
babbling  brooks  of  clear,  cold  water,  those  little 
dabs  of  green  in  the  midst  of  wide  stretches  of 
dreariness  awaken  pity  and  not  admiration.  There 
is  nothing  either  in  the  accommodations  on  the  boat 
or  in  the  scenery  to  make  the  traveller  long  to 
repeat  his  ride  from  Wenatchee  to  Chelan  Falls. 
It  is  said  to  be  four  miles  from  Chelan  Falls, 
on  the  Columbia  River,  to  the  foot  of  Lake  Chelan. 
We  believe  it,  and  would  just  as  readily  believe 
that  it  is  ten  miles.  The  fact  is  that  the  miles 
are  perpendicular.  You  are  either  going  up  or 
down  all  of  the  time.  Lake  Chelan  lies  four 
hundred  feet  above  the  Columbia  River,  and  the 
road  borders  the  stream  through  which  Lake 
Chelan  discharges  its  waters.    On  second  thought 


142  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

that  word  "  borders "  does  not  fit.  The  road 
transcends  the  stream;  looks  down  upon  it.  At 
one  point  in  the  journey  you  gaze  downwards 
some  five  hundred  feet  upon  the  boiling,  turbu- 
lent waters  which  have  made  a  way  for  them- 
selves through  a  crevice  in  the  rock.  The  colour 
reminds  one  of  his  boyhood  when  he  interviewed 
the  bluing  water  in  the  family  wash-tub. 

Lake  Chelan,  at  last,  and  a  hotel  for  the  night, 
as  the  boat  does  not  leave  for  the  upper  end  of 
the  lake  until  morning.  It  was  an  eventful  night 
not  only  because  the  inhabitants  of  the  village 
were  celebrating  the  "  glorious  Fourth,"  but 
chiefly  from  an  important  archaeological  discovery 
made  by  the  writer.  Many  of  our  readers  are 
familiar  with  the  account  given  in  the  Bible  of 
the  pillow  upon  which  Jacob  spent  a  dream-filled 
night.  That  identical  pillow  is  in  a  hotel  at  Lake- 
side. It  must  be  confessed  that  this  is  a  deduc- 
tion and  lacks  absolute  historical  verification;  but 
as  Jacob's  pillow  was  of  stone  and  the  Lakeside 
pillow  is  of  the  same  material,  and  inasmuch  as 
we  have  no  record  of  any  other  pillow  of  that 
kind,  it  is  a  fair  inference  that  Jacob's  famous 
head-rest  has  been  identified.  If  any  one  questions 
the  deduction  let  him  try  the  pillow. 

It  is  fifty-one  miles  from  the  foot  of  Lake 
Chelan  to  its  head,  and  with  each  mile  as  one  goes 
north  the  scenery  grows  more  beautiful.  The 
mountains  at  the  lower  end  of  the  lake  rise  to  a 


AMONG  THE  CUT-THROATS  143 

height  of  three  or  four  thousand  feet,  while  at 
the  upper  end  they  tower  nine  thousand  feet 
almost  precipitously  from  the  water.  The  water 
of  the  lake  is  clear  and  blue,  the  mountains  crowd 
upon  it  in  their  silent  majesty,  the  air  is  clean  and 
refreshing. 

On  some  still  morning  when  the  winds  do  not 
disturb  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  nature  is  at  its 
best.  In  the  lake  we  saw  pictures  that  cannot  be 
reproduced  by  any  skill  of  man;  miles  of  flawless 
mirror  in  which  mountains  and  crags  and  trees  and 
clouds  were  reproduced  with  matchless  fidelity. 
Sometimes  the  clouds  hung  for  hours  over  the 
summits  of  the  mountains,  and  here  and  there 
were  great  masses  of  snow  which  no  summer  heat 
could  banish.  Looking  up  the  valley  of  the 
Stehekin  towards  the  north,  twenty-five  miles  away 
rises  a  huge  mountain,  down  the  side  of  which 
a  giant  glacier  makes  its  way.  And  the  best  of  all 
is  that  here  one  is  "  far  from  the  madding  crowd." 
At  the  head  of  the  lake  is  a  hotel  and  a  fish  hatch- 
ery; no  store,  no  factory,  not  even  a  Chautauqua. 

It  has  taken  a  long  time  to  get  to  the  cut-throats, 
but  we  have  arrived  at  last.  The  books  on  fishing 
assure  one  that  the  cut-throat  "  takes  the  artificial 
fly  greedily,"  and  all  the  way  the  right  arm  has 
been  fairly  tingling  with  anxiety  to  begin  casting. 
Alas !  and  again  alas !  The  hotel  clerk  says  that  it 
is  too  early  for  the  fly;  we  must  use  bait  or  a  spoon. 
It  is  the  old  story  over  again.     Did   you  ever 


144  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

travel  far  to  a  famous  fishing  ground  and  find  the 
conditions  just  right?  It  is  always  too  early  or  too 
late,  the  water  is  too  high  or  too  low,  something 
is  the  matter  which  effectually  prevents  the  best 
sport.  But  the  man  who  has  lugged  a  bundle  of 
fly-rods  to  the  church  convention  that  he  might  use 
them  on  Lake  Chelan  is  slow  to  believe  that  all  his 
enterprise  has  been  in  vain.  He  will  give  them 
a  try  before  abandoning  hope.  Behold  him,  then, 
whipping  patiently  on  the  edge  of  sand  bars,  in 
the  swift  water,  under  over-hanging  bushes,  in  the 
shadows  of  great  rocks,  here,  there,  everywhere 
except  on  the  board  walk  and  the  roof  of  the 
hotel ;  but  so  far  as  results  are  concerned  he  might 
as  well  have  cast  his  flies  in  State  Street,  Chicago. 
Nothing  doing;  not  even  the  feeblest  answer  to 
his  invitation.  Meanwhile  a  fellow-boarder  is 
fishing  with  bait,  using  a  bamboo  pole  about  six- 
teen feet  long  and  derricking  fish  in  with  a  regu- 
larity that  is  equalled  only  by  his  evident  ignorance 
of  all  the  fundamental  principles  of  true  sport.  But 
he  gets  the  fish.  If  one  is  fishing  for  market  he  may 
use  a  telegraph  pole  or  a  net;  but  if  he  has  in  him 
something  of  the  temper  of  the  famous  Izaak, 
fishing  is  more  than  meat.  He  loves  the  water  and 
the  sky,  is  made  captive  by  the  beauty  of  stream 
and  mountain,  delights  to  pit  his  wits  against  those 
of  the  wary  citizens  of  the  pool. 

But  what  is  to  be  done?    No  one  has  yet  been 
found  who  can  compel  a  trout  to  go  after  the  fly 


AMONG  THE  CUT-THROATS         145 

when  he  does  not  wish  to.  We  troll  with  a 
Dowagiac  spinner,  and  the  result,  in  number  of 
fish,  is  distinctly  satisfactory.  As  the  trolling  is 
done  with  a  steel  rod  there  is  a  certain  amount  of 
sport  in  the  exercise;  but  at  the  best  it  is  far 
below  fly-fishing. 

This  story,  thus  far,  has  been  written  with  care- 
ful attention  to  facts  in  order  that  it  may  bear 
the  scrutiny  of  certain  friends  who  companied 
with  the  writer  for  a  short  time  at  the  head  of 
the  lake.  They  were  good  men  and  true,  lovers 
of  God's  out-of-doors,  delightful  comrades.  Their 
company  was  a  joy,  but  their  presence  was  embar- 
rassing. Every  one  knows  that  witnesses  are 
unnecessary  in  fishing.  To  have  some  one  at  your 
elbow  who  wants  to  know  just  how  many  you 
have  caught  and  what  they  weigh,  allows  no  room 
for  that  play  of  the  imagination  which  gives  to 
fish  stories  their  indefinable  charm.  It  was  a  dark 
hour  for  the  writer  when  these  good  friends  turned 
their  faces  towards  the  south  and  left  him  desolate, 
but  it  was  then  that  the  fishing  really  began. 

Just  where  the  Stehekin  makes  its  final  plunges 
before  joining  the  lake,  there  is  a  reach  of  rippling 
water  bordered  on  one  side  by  low-growing  trees, 
and  on  the  other  by  a  great  bunch  of  drift-wood. 
The  fly-rod  was  put  in  commission,  a  sinker  was 
used,  and  a  bit  of  the  white  throat  of  a  trout  took 
the  place  of  the  artificial  lure.  With  the  boat 
lying  against  the   drift-wood  a  cast   was   made 


146  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

towards  the  trees,  the  bait  allowed  to  sink  and  then 
drawn  slowly  towards  the  boat.  Was  that  the 
bottom?  Hardly,  for  it  is  tugging  and  lunging 
and  rushing  back  and  forth  across  the  narrow 
water.  The  light  bamboo  meets  every  lunge,  and 
the  fight  goes  merrily  on  for  ten  minutes  or  so, 
when  a  beautiful  Dolly  Varden  trout  is  brought 
to  net.  Another  cast  and  another  strike.  This 
time  the  visitor  has  succeeded  in  getting  on  the 
other  side  of  a  log  that  juts  out  into  the  stream 
from  the  drift-wood.  So  much  the  better  for  the 
sport.  Gently,  little  by  little,  he  is  persuaded  to 
travel  towards  the  end  of  that  log,  until,  after  many 
efforts,  the  line  swings  free.  A  long,  delightful 
tussle,  and  he  joins  his  comrade  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat.  Lest  the  reader's  patience  should  give 
way  under  the  strain  of  detailed  description,  suffice 
it  to  say  that  from  that  one  spot  six  Dolly  Vardens 
were  taken,  not  one  of  which  weighed  less  than 
three  pounds. 

But  fly-fishing  was  found,  such  as  it  was.  Two 
miles  up  the  valley  Boulder  Creek  comes  down 
the  canon  and  empties  into  the  Stehekin.  We 
were  told  that  here  one  could  catch  mountain  trout 
with  the  fly.  A  mile  beyond  Boulder  Creek  are  the 
Rainbow  Falls,  where  a  stream  drops  over  the 
eastern  mountains  for  a  sheer  plunge  of  three 
hundred  and  twenty  feet.  One  day  was  all  too 
little  to  devote  to  the  beauty  of  this  scenery  and 
an  excursion  up  Boulder,  but  it  was  a  day  well 


AMONG  THE  CUT-THROATS  147 

spent.  The  trout  were  there;  little  fellows  among 
whom  a  nine-inch  fish  was  a  giant.  The  farther  one 
went  up  the  canon  the  better  the  fishing  grew  and 
the  more  plentiful  and  vindictive  the  mosquitoes 
became.  The  fish  bit  readily  and  the  mosquitoes 
more  readily.  One  could  have  filled  a  basket  with 
small  fish,  but  after  saving  a  dozen  for  dinner  the 
rest  were  thrown  back.  Zest  was  added  to  this 
excursion  by  the  information  that  rattlesnakes 
frequented  these  rocky  slopes;  so  the  fisherman 
walked  softly  and  kept  an  eye  to  windward. 

Mountains  and  forests,  dancing  streams  and 
beautiful  lake,  quiet  and — fish!  What  more  could 
one  wish  who  seeks  rest  for  tired  nerves?  Some 
time  they  will  build  a  railroad  in  there,  and  then 
Lake  Chelan  will  be  easier  of  access,  but  less  to 
be  desired  than  now.  When  the  crowds  come,  half 
of  its  present  charm  will  be  lost. 


J 

CAMPING 

ON 

THE  NEPIGON 


XII 


CAMPING  ON  THE  NEPIGON 


"  Three  fishers  went  rolling  out  into  the  North  ; 
Out  into  the  North  as  the  sun  went  down." 

F  that  is  plagiarism,  make  the 
most  of  it.  It  is  a  fact.  There 
was  the  Business  Man,  the  Doc- 
tor and  the  Preacher;  fishermen 
all.  They  preferred  to  roll  rather 
than  to  sail,  because  they  were 
in  a  hurry.  They  rolled  north  rather  than  west, 
because  the  best  trout  stream  in  North  America 
lies  between  Chicago  and  Hudson's  Bay.  Who 
has  not  heard  of  the  famous  Nepigon?  What 
angler  has  not  dreamed  of  battling  with  the  giant 
trout  which  inhabit  its  waters?  For  months  the 
Business  Man,  the  Doctor  and  the  Preacher  had 
been  examining  their  rods,  looking  over  tackle, 
selecting  flies,  laying  plans  and  looking  forward 
with  feverish  anxiety  to  August  first. 
151 


152  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

The  evening  of  that  day  found  us  on  board  a 
vestibule  Northwestern  train,  bound  for  Duluth 
and  the  Nepigon.  At  Duluth  we  exchanged  rolling 
for  sailing — by  steam.  If  the  weather  had  been  at 
all  nasty,  we  should  have  combined  rolling  with 
sailing;  for  the  little  tub  which  plies  between  Port 
Arthur  and  Duluth  was  evidently  designed  to 
exemplify  all  the  possibilities  in  the  way  of  tumb- 
ling about.  But  Lake  Superior  was  on  its  good 
behaviour,  with  its  face  as  smooth  and  calm  as 
that  of  a  sportsman  when  he  has  just  landed  a 
five-pound  trout.  The  captain  was  one  of  the  most 
genial  of  men,  and  the  cook  was  undoubtedly  a 
genius.  We  were  not  privileged  to  meet  him  per- 
sonally, but  we  had  abundant  evidence  of  his  culi- 
nary skill.  The  memory  of  his  soup  will  linger 
with  us  forever.  After  mature  deliberation  we 
unanimously  agreed  that  it  was  unlike  anything 
we  had  ever  tasted.  We  tasted  it  but  once,  for  what- 
ever other  failings  we  may  have,  we  are  not  greedy 
— at  least  for  soup  made  from  a  strong  decoction 
of  musty  hay,  flavoured  with  extract  of  logwood. 
The  polite  waiter,  observing  that  the  Business  Man 
was  playing  with  the  soup  spoon  instead  of  eating, 
mercifully  inquired,  "  Have  you  got  tired  of  your 
plate  ?  "  Disgust,  relief,  unsatisfied  longing  and 
a  choice  variety  of  unclassified  emotions  expressed 
themselves  through  the  hasty  affirmative  of 
the  B.  M. 

If  this  chapter  did  not  aim  to  treat  of  fishing, 


CAMPING  ON  THE  NEPIGON         153 

the  writer  would  be  tempted  to  say  that  Port 
Arthur  is  "  beautiful  for  situation."  It  lies  one 
hundred  and  eighty  miles  east  of  Duluth  on  the 
north  shore  of  Lake  Superior.  At  this  point  the 
land  rises  gently  from  the  lake  shore,  and  from  the 
elevation  in  the  northern  part  of  the  town  a  beauti- 
ful panorama  is  seen.  Immediately  before  us  is 
Thunder  Bay,  hemmed  in  by  the  rocky  walls  of  the 
mainland,  Pie  Island  and  Thunder  Cape.  A  nar- 
row passage  opens  out  into  the  lake,  through  which 
Isle  Royal  may  be  dimly  seen  in  the  distance. 
Thunder  Cape  rises  to  a  height  of  fourteen  hun- 
dred feet,  and  Pie  Island — which  takes  its  name 
from  its  shape — is  not  less  than  one  thousand 
feet  high,  with  a  little  lake  on  its  top.  The  sides 
of  both  island  and  cape  are  exceedingly  bold.  We 
watched  them  one  August  night  as  the  setting  sun 
touched  the  bold  rock  into  gold  and  purple,  and 
saw  the  shadows  steal  over  the  waters  and  up  the 
precipitous  sides  of  the  cliffs  until  water  and  cliff 
were  hidden  in  the  darkness. 

But  we  must  get  on  to  Nepigon,  seventy-five  to 
one  hundred  miles  away.  We  take  the  train  on 
the  Canadian  Pacific,  and  glad  are  we  when  the 
conductor  shouts  out,  "  Nepigon."  We  look  out 
with  curious  eyes  upon  the  famous  Canadian  city. 
There  are  four  log-houses,  a  store  and  a  hotel. 
We  afterward  found  the  Hudson  Bay  Company's 
store,  and  the  comfortable  house  occupied  by  the 
agent.    In  fact,  this  same  agent  was  the  immediate 


154.  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

object  of  our  search,  for  he  had  kindly  undertaken 
to  engage  guides  and  make  the  other  necessary 
arrangements  for  our  trip  up  the  river.  He  proved 
to  be  one  of  the  most  courteous  and  obliging  of 
gentlemen,  and  spared  no  pains  to  assist  us  in 
preparations  for  the  trip.  To  his  wise  selection 
of  guides  was  due  much  of  the  pleasure  of  our 
outing. 

Behold  us  on  a  sunny  morning  fairly  embarked 
and  headed  up  the  noble  Nepigon.  A  little 
geography  and  guide-book  eloquence  might  be 
appropriate  just  here.  The  Nepigon  River  is  the 
largest  tributary  to  Lake  Superior.  It  is  about 
forty  miles  in  length,  and  the  outlet  of  Lake  Nepi- 
gon, a  body  of  water  seventy  miles  long  by  fifty 
miles  wide,  with  a  shoreline  of  five  hundred  and 
eighty  miles.  There  is  a  fall  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty  feet  in  its  course  of  forty  miles,  and  that 
means  numerous  cascades  and  rapids.  But  the 
fact  of  prime  importance  is  that  this  river  is  the 
home  of  big  trout;  not  only  large,  but  pugnacious. 
They  are  the  Sullivans — beg  pardon,  I  mean  the 
Johnsons — of  the  Salmo  Fontinalis  family. 

But  this  is  getting  ahead  of  my  story.  We  are 
just  starting  up  the  river.  Let  me  introduce  you 
to  our  four  guides:  Aleck  De  La  Ronde,  Joe 
Kejigos,  Vincent  Ashawikyegulap  and  Zavier 
Misak.  They  are  O  jib  way  Indians.  Aleck,  the 
head  man,  not  only  speaks  English,  but  reads  and 
writes.    Joe  speaks  a  little  English,  and  the  other 


CAMPING  ON  THE  NEPIGON         155 

two  none  at  all.  Two  birch-bark  canoes  are  loaded 
with  our  tents,  duffle  and  provisions.  If  any 
reader  imagines  that  to  camp  out  is  to  go  half 
starved,  let  him  cast  his  eye  over  this  list  of  eat- 
ables: ham,  bacon,  potatoes,  flour,  eggs,  baked 
beans,  canned  soups,  chicken,  beef,  peaches,  apri- 
cots, maple  syrup,  preserves  of  various  kinds,  con- 
densed milk,  bouillon,  etc.,  etc.  However,  we 
needed  all  our  provisions,  and  even  more,  for  a 
camp  appetite  is  sure  to  be  large,  vigorous,  and 
in  a  chronic  state  of  discontent. 

Now  we  are  off.  The  river  at  this  point  has 
broadened  out  into  a  beautiful  lake.  Yonder,  upon 
the  eastern  shore,  nestles  the  Roman  Catholic  mis- 
sion house.  All  of  our  guides,  as  well  as  the  ma- 
jority of  the  six  hundred  Indians  upon  the  reserva- 
tion, are  members  of  this  communion.  No  one 
who  talks  with  them  can  doubt  that  their  religion 
is  real.  It  affects  their  lives  and  controls,  in  some 
measure,  their  actions.  Yonder,  toward  the  south, 
a  great  mass  of  red  rock  lifts  itself  high  in  the  air, 
and  for  many  years  it  gave  the  name  of  "  Red 
Rock  "  to  this  section.  The  Indians  paddle  and 
jabber.  It  is  comforting  to  be  told  by  Aleck  that 
there  are  no  "  swear  words  "  in  the  Ojibway  lan- 
guage; but  for  this  assurance  we  should  have 
thought  our  guides  horribly  profane.  The  language 
sounds  rough  and  full  of  imprecation.  How  our 
conception  of  the  morose  and  taciturn  Indian 
vanishes  in  the  presence  of  these  light-hearted, 


156  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

genial  and  loquacious  red-men !  They  are  children, 
full  of  mirth,  fond  of  companionship,  kindly  in 
disposition,  honest  and  faithful.  We  pass  the  neat 
log  cabins  of  our  guides,  catch  glimpses  of  a  few 
wigwams  on  the  western  shore,  and  by  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  land  at  Camp  Alexander,  some 
twelve  miles  from  Nepigon  station.  This  camp 
is  on  a  large  pool  at  the  foot  of  a  rapid.  The 
water  comes  foaming  down  through  the  narrow 
pass  between  the  rocks,  and  then  swirls  and  eddies 
and  boils  and  bubbles  before  beginning  its  quiet 
journey  toward  the  lake.  It  is  just  the  place  for 
trout.  Rods  are  quickly  assembled,  flies  carefully 
selected,  and,  trembling  with  eagerness,  the  fisher- 
men make  their  way  to  the  stream.  And  now 
comes  a  humiliating  confession.  The  Preacher  is 
the  first  to  reach  the  river,  and  in  a  moment  more 
his  flies  are  dancing  in  the  eddy.  To  his  surprise 
nothing  disturbs  them.  He  casts  again  and  yet 
again,  but  all  in  vain.  So  far  as  any  signs  of  trout 
are  concerned  he  might  as  well  cast  upon  the  pel- 
lucid waters  of  the  Chicago  River.  Then  comes  a 
terrible  temptation.  A  wily  fiend  whispers  in  his 
ear,  "  Try  a  worm."  Now  the  large-hearted  Hud- 
son Bay  agent  had  presented  the  Preacher  with  a 
box  of  choice  angle  worms,  and  said  box  is  at  that 
moment  in  the  ministerial  pocket.  Another  in- 
effectual cast  of  the  flies,  and  then  "  What  a  fall 
was  there,  my  countrymen !  "  Off  come  the  flies 
and  on  goes  a  fat  worm.     Gently  the  wriggling 


CAMPING  ON  THE  NEPIGON         157 

bait  is  dropped  into  the  water,  just  in  the  shadow 
of  a  huge  rock,  when,  tug — zip — whoop — "  Hello ! 
Bring  the  landing  net! — Quick!  I've  got  him! — 
Hurry  up ! "  The  air  is  heavy  with  the  Preacher's 
cries,  and  the  rod  is  springing  under  the  mad  dives 
of  the  trout,  and  then — it  is  all  over,  and  out  on 
the  grass  lies  a  beautiful  "  two-pounder,"  and  the 
Preacher  is  suffering  from  the  taunts  and  jeers 
of  the  Business  Man  and  the  Doctor :  "  Caught  it 
with  a  worm !  "  "  What  kind  of  a  sportsman  do 
you  call  yourself?"  The  pride  begotten  by  cap- 
turing the  first  fish  is  knocked  down  and  trampled 
upon  by  the  shame  of  having  been  unsportsmanlike. 
Let  it  be  said  that  the  next  day  that  box  of  worms 
was  lost  and  never  found. 

Back  to  camp,  where  we  find  the  tents  up  and 
supper  well  under  way.  That  first  supper  in  camp ! 
Three  hungry  men  devoured  everything  in  sight, 
until  it  came  to  pancakes;  then  they  paused,  not 
from  lack  of  appetite,  but  from  fear  of  a  sudden 
and  horrible  death.  From  what  ingredients  Joe, 
the  cook,  compounded  those  cakes  will  remain  a 
mystery  forever.  It  was  suggested  that  he  had 
cooked  a  flannel  blanket  or  a  pair  of  gum-boots, 
but  he  denied  it.  We  ate  very  sparingly  of  the 
cakes,  and  soon  afterward  went  to  bed.  That  night 
the  Preacher  had  a  dream.  An  enormous  bird, 
with  curved  beak  and  fierce  eyes,  persisted  in 
roosting  upon  his  stomach.  Nor  would  the  bird 
stand  still,  but  with  fiendish  malignity  curvetted 


158  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

and  danced  and  double-shuffled,  greatly  to  the 
Preacher's  discomfort.  The  unfortunate  victim 
expostulated  mildly,  but  the  bird  laughed  him  to 
scorn.  Then  the  Preacher  pushed  the  dancer  off, 
but  the  bird  hopped  back  at  once  and  proceeded  to 
execute  a  Highland  fling.  Then  the  long-suffering 
Preacher  arose  in  his  wrath  and,  seizing  a  knife, 
cut  the  bird's  head  off.  Horror !  No  sooner  was 
the  "  foul  "  deed  accomplished  than  the  bird  proved 
to  be  a  man,  and  the  Preacher  was  hustled  before 
a  Chicago  court  to  be  tried  for  murder.  The  prose- 
cuting attorney  showed  beyond  a  question  that  the 
Preacher  had  deliberately  killed  this  man.  The 
lawyer  for  the  defence  submitted,  first,  that  the 
man  had  no  business  to  assume  the  form  of  a  bird; 
second,  that  the  stomach  of  a  Preacher  should 
never  be  used  as  a  dance  hall.  The  jury  retires  and 
is  gone  for  only  five  minutes.  The  Preacher 
trembles  in  the  box,  and  as  the  jurymen  file  back 
into  their  seats  he — awakes.  The  verdict  will 
never  be  known,  although  the  dreamer  did  his  best 
to  go  to  sleep  again  at  once  and  find  out  the 
decision. 

The  Doctor  also  had  his  experience  that  first 
night  in  camp.  He  was  shot.  As  he  lay  listening 
to  the  gentle  breathings  of  his  tent-mates  a  sharp 
report,  as  of  a  gun,  was  heard,  and  he  felt  a  bullet 
strike  him  over  the  heart.  The  end  had  come.  It 
was  hard  to  die  so  young,  far  from  his  dear  ones, 
in  the  depths  of  the  wilderness;  but  being  a  good 


CAMPING  ON  THE  NEPIGON         159 

man  and  a  philosopher  he  whispered  farewell  to 
this  world,  composed  his  limbs  and  calmly  awaited 
death.  But  it  didn't  come;  so  the  Doctor  proceeded 
to  make  a  diagnosis  of  his  case.  After  thorough 
examination  he  found  that  the  string  stretched 
from  the  rear  to  the  front  tent  pole  and  upon  which 
various  articles  were  suspended,  had  broken,  and 
the  looking-glass  had  struck  him  in  the  ribs.  He 
took  a  long  breath,  went  to  sleep,  and  told  us  the 
joke  in  the  morning. 

Early  the  next  morning  we  broke  camp  and  were 
on  our  way  up  the  river.  In  order  to  get  around 
the  rapids  a  portage  of  two  miles  is  made  at  this 
point.  It  was  a  novel  sight  to  see  our  guides  pack- 
ing the  provisions,  cooking  utensils,  etc.  The 
white  guide  in  the  Adirondacks  would  carry  it  in 
a  pack  basket ;  but  the  Indian  makes  a  large  bundle 
which  he  ties  together  with  the  ends  of  his  packing 
strap — some  twenty  feet  long — leaving  the  central 
and  wider  portion  of  the  strap  to  pass  over  his 
forehead,  thus  supporting  with  his  neck  the  burden 
which  rests  upon  his  shoulders.  The  average  load 
for  a  packer  is  two  hundred  pounds.  When  night 
comes  we  are  at  Split  Rock,  where  we  camp,  and 
the  next  day  make  Pine  Portage.  Here  we  camp 
for  a  week,  and  really  begin  to  fish.  There  is  a 
splendid  stretch  of  broken  water  right  in  front  of 
the  camp,  and  good  pools  within  a  short  distance 
either  up  or  down  the  river.  The  Business  Man 
goes  down  the  river  one  morning  and  comes  back 


160  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

with  a  pair  of  trout  which  weigh  nine  and  a  quarter 
pounds.  Then  the  Doctor  sets  the  camp  in  tur- 
moil by  taking  a  five  and  a  quarter  pound  fish. 
The  poor  Preacher  rejoices  in  the  success  of  his 
brethren,  and  tries  hard  to  beat  them;  but  four  and 
a  quarter  pounds  is  the  best  he  can  do.  Large 
numbers  of  trout  are  taken,  ranging  from  two  to 
four  pounds  apiece,  but  it  is  the  big  trout  we  want. 
How  swiftly  the  days  pass!  A  week  has  gone, 
and  if  we  are  to  go  as  far  as  Lake  Nepigon,  we 
must  push  on.  We  break  camp  reluctantly,  for 
this  place  seems  like  home  to  us.  We  have  become 
familiar  with  every  rock  in  the  stream,  with  every 
eddy,  almost.  We  have  watched  the  sun  go  down 
in  the  woods  which  stretch  unbroken  for  uncounted 
miles  to  the  west,  and  have  seen  the  yellow  moon 
lift  itself  above  the  bold  shoulder  of  the  mountain 
which  borders  the  river  on  the  east. 

But  we  have  heard  great  stories  of  the  fishing 
higher  up,  and  away  we  go.  Camp  Victoria! 
Magic  name  with  which  to  conjure  scenes  of  the 
rarest  pleasure!  Here,  where  the  swift-rushing 
river  forms  our  front  door-step,  we  make  another 
long  halt.  Here,  about  ten  rods  below  our  camp, 
a  gentleman  from  Woodstock,  Ontario,  took  an 
eight-pound  trout  only  last  week.  Here  the 
Preacher  caught  three  trout  weighing  five  and  a 
quarter,  five,  and  four  and  a  half  pounds,  respec- 
tively, and  took  two  of  them  in  two  successive 
casts.    Here  Aleck,  the  head  guide,  broke  the  game 


CAMPING  ON  THE  NEPIGON        161 

law,  and  we  became  partakers  of  his  crime  by  eat- 
ing broiled  partridge  for  supper.  From  this  point 
we  made  excursions  to  Lake  Nepigon,  and  found 
that  the  half  had  not  been  told  us  as  to  the  beauties 
of  this  inland  sea.  Bold,  rocky  shores,  clear,  blue 
reaches  of  water,  islands  small  and  great,  unbroken 
wilderness  all  about,  with  the  August  sun  smiling 
down  upon  this  unsullied  work  of  God.  A  fairer 
picture  man  never  saw. 

From  Camp  Victoria  we  visited  Virgin  Falls, 
where,  just  after  the  river  leaves  the  lake,  the 
water,  pressed  in  between  walls  of  rock,  has  a  sheer 
fall  of  some  twenty  feet.  And  what  noble  fish  we 
took  at  this  camp!  Great  lusty  fellows,  lying  in 
swift  running  water,  and  with  every  muscle 
seasoned  and  wiry!  Poems  in  gold  and  brown 
they  were.  The  rougher  the  water  the  larger  and 
gamier  the  fish.  It  was  here  that  the  Doctor  had 
had  an  attack  of  sea-sickness.  They  were  out  in 
the  rapids,  anchored,  and  the  canoe  was  dancing 
about  in  the  current,  when  the  Doctor  suddenly 
lost  all  interest  in  everything  above  his  head,  and 
fastened  his  gaze  upon  the  bottom  of  the  river. 
He  heaved — well,  call  it  a  sigh;  now  draw  the  veil. 

Our  camp  was  upon  the  solid  rock,  but  when  the 
thunder-storm  was  abroad  in  the  land,  that  rock 
shook  and  trembled.  We  shall  not  soon  forget 
that,  night  of  storm  when  our  tent  seemed  a  target 
for  the  lightning.  In  the  morning  we  found  two 
great  pines  rent  and  shivered  by  the  electric  bolts. 


162  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

The  Indians  have  their  own  explanation  of  a 
thunder-storm.  The  thunder  is  the  noise  made  by 
a  giant  bird  as  it  beats  its  wings  against  its  body; 
the  lightning  is  caused  by  the  bird  winking  its 
eye. 

The  story  of  those  idyllic  days  would  require  a 
volume  for  its  telling,  and  the  patience  of  the 
reader  is  probably  exhausted  long  ere  this.  There 
came  an  evening  when  Joe  placed  a  dish  before  us 
and  announced,  "  All  potatoes."  To  be  sure  they 
were  all  potatoes.  Did  he  imagine  that  we  would 
take  them  for  billiard  balls?  But  there  is  a 
deeper  significance  in  his  words.  After  a  wild 
struggle  with  our  language,  he  manages  to  say, 
"  Potatoes  all  gone."  This  is  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  A  hasty  examination  of  the  larder  shows 
us  that  we  have  barely  enough  provisions  to  last 
until  we  can  reach  civilization.  It  is  the  Business 
Man's  appetite  that  has  undone  us.  He  is  not 
large  in  stature,  but  he  has  developed  an  appetite 
that  would  paralyze  a  boarding-house  keeper.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  his  appetite  has  gotten  away 
from  him,  and  goes  roaming  around  among  the 
victuals  seeking  what  it  may  devour.  Sadly  we 
pack  up  and  turn  our  faces  toward  the  south. 
Word  is  brought  in  that  Mary,  the  little  daughter 
of  our  head  guide,  is  dead.  We  press  hurriedly 
on,  through  the  sunshine  and  the  beating  storm, 
and  within  twenty-four  hours  from  the  time  when 
the  tidings  reached  us,  our  canoes  are  before  the 


CAMPING  ON  THE  NEPIGON        163 

little  cabin  and  we  watch  the  sorrowing  father  as 
he  enters  his  darkened  home. 

"Death  comes  down  with  reckless  footsteps, 
To  the  hall  and  hut." 

Sitting  on  the  hotel  piazza  at  Port  Arthur,  the 
Preacher  watched  the  steamer  on  which  were  the 
Business  Man  and  the  Doctor,  until  it  became  a 
speck  on  the  horizon  and  vanished  from  sight.  He 
said  in  his  heart,  "  Those  are  good  men  and  true. 
Dear  friends  before,  they  are  still  dearer  after 
the  crucial  test  of  camp  life.  God  bless  them 
alway." 


IN  A 

HOUSE-BOAT 
ON  THE 
KOOTENAY 


XIII 


IN  A  HOUSE-BOAT  ON  THE  KOOTENAY 

GLORIOUS  Kootenay!"  That's 
what  the  folders  call  it,  and  if 
any  more  intense  adjective  could 
be  found  that  too  would  be  tacked 
on.  That  Canadian  Northwest 
strains  the  English  language  tre- 
mendously. "  Magnificent,"  "  splendid,"  "  grand," 
"  glorious,"  are  worn  to  frazzles  by  constant  use, 
and  were  it  possible  to  roll  them  all  into  one  big 
word,  it  would  still  be  utterly  inadequate  to  ex- 
press the  native's  admiration  for  his  country.  The 
chances  are  that  the  reader  does  not  even  know 
where  the  Kootenay  is,  and,  while  we  have  a  dis- 
tinct aversion  to  playing  the  part  of  a  guide-book, 
we  will  go  so  far  as  to  advise  consultation  of  a  good 
map  of  British  Columbia.  Down  in  the  south- 
eastern corner  you  will  find  Kootenay  Lake  and 
River,  but  the  map  does  not  reveal  the  rugged 

167 


168  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

mountains,  the  wine-like  air,  the  sparkling  water, 
the  sunshine,  the  peace,  the  rest  fulness,  the 
TROUT  that  make  the  Kootenay  one  of  God's 
best  gifts  to  man. 

The  confession  may  as  well  be  made  first  as  last 
that  we  went  to  the  Kootenay  country  for  the 
express  purpose  of  fishing.  This  is  no  disparage- 
ment to  the  people  or  to  the  scenery,  for  each 
stands  at  the  head  of  its  class.  But  some  philoso- 
pher has  said  (or  if  he  has  not  he  ought  to  have 
done  so)  :  "  Count  that  vacation  wasted  in  which 
you  do  no  fishing."  Wasting  a  vacation  is  sinful; 
therefore  we  fish.  Here  in  the  Kootenay  are  trout 
worthy  of  one's  skill;  heroes  of  many  battles; 
cunning  and  adroit  veterans  who  know  all  the 
tricks  at  the  command  of  the  enemy. 

Just  below  the  point  where  the  Kootenay  River 
breaks  out  of  the  lake  is  the  little  hamlet  of  Proc- 
tor. There  is  not  much  to  the  place  but  the  hotel 
and  the  name — yes,  and  the  trout.  The  river  is 
wide  and  deep,  with  swift  current  and  numberless 
counter-currents.  Where  the  water  rushes  around 
some  rock  or  point  of  sand,  where  current  struggles 
with  current  and  a  great  swirl  grows  out  of  the 
conflict,  there  the  rainbow-trout  hold  their  town- 
meetings.  We  attended  some  of  them  and  tried 
our  uttermost  to  break  them  up.  It  was  in  a  visit 
to  one  of  these  gatherings  that  the  Junior  made 
his  bow  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Kootenay  waters. 
Behold  the  young  man  (not  quite  four  years  old) 


ON  THE  KOOTENAY  169 

seated  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  rod  firmly  grasped, 
determination  in  his  eye,  while  his  aged  sire  works 
the  oars.  To  and  fro  over  the  waters  for  a  little 
time,  then  the  rod  bends  sharply  back,  and  far  be- 
hind a  quivering  mass  of  colour  springs  into  the  air 
and  falls  back  with  a  mighty  splash.  "  I've  got 
him!"  cries  the  Junior,  and  "Hang  on!"  cries 
the  Senior.  And  he  does  hang  on.  Great  boy, 
that!  He's  as  quiet  and  self-controlled  as  if  only 
purloining  cookies  out  of  the  jar  in  the  pantry. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  the  fond  father  gave  a 
little  aid  in  landing  the  victim,  but  what  of  that? 
A  noble  two-pounder  is  lying  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  and  if  there  is  a  prouder  mortal  in 
the  universe  than  that  boy  it  is  his  venerable 
father. 

But  it  is  the  house-boat  concerning  which  we  set 
out  to  write.  Be  it  known  that  the  Canadian 
Pacific  Railway  Company  maintains  a  finely  fur- 
nished house-boat  on  the  Kootenay  waters  for  such 
visitors  as  may  desire  to  realize  the  utmost  of 
human  happiness.  Can  you  see  it  in  your  mind's 
eye?  Sixty  feet  long  by  about  twenty  in  width, 
four  staterooms  with  two  berths  each,  servants' 
quarters,  kitchen,  pantry,  storerooms,  toilets, 
cabin.  On  the  upper  deck  are  chairs,  and  here, 
under  the  shade  of  the  awning,  we  rest  after  the 
arduous  labour  of  doing  nothing.  The  house- 
boat is  towed  to  any  point  on  river  or  lake  which 
you  may  select,  and  tied  up  to  the  shore.     The 


170  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

steamer  stops  daily  on  its  trips  from  Nelson  to 
Kootenay  Landing  to  take  your  orders  for  pro- 
visions or  to  bring  supplies.  A  Chinaman  does  the 
"  house  work,"  including  alleged  cooking.  Do 
you  get  the  picture? 

It  was  five  o'clock  on  a  Friday  afternoon  when 
the  tug  and  the  house-boat  picked  us  up  at  Proctor. 
By  "  us  "  is  meant  the  Preacher  and  his  family, 
together  with  the  Doctor  and  his  daughter.  The 
wind  was  blowing  fresh  from  the  south,  and  our 
destination  was  twenty  miles  away.  Once  out  of 
the  river  where  the  wind  could  get  a  fair  chance 
at  us,  and  that  house-boat  began  to  buck.  Per- 
haps you  think  there  are  no  possibilities  of  a  heavy 
sea  on  an  inland  lake.  If  so,  you  will  do  well  to 
think  again.  Kootenay  Lake  is  more  than  one 
hundred  miles  long  with  an  average  width  of 
some  five  miles.  Great  mountains  guard  it  on 
either  side,  and  up  that  long  tunnel  the  wind 
came  with  a  whoop.  The  boat  was  lashed  to  the 
windward  side  of  the  tug,  and  so  was  in  position 
to  get  the  full  benefit  of  any  slap  that  the  waves 
thought  best  to  give.  We  rose  and  fell  and  heaved 
about.  The  hawsers  were  not  absolutely  taut, 
and  ever  and  again  the  boat  would  be  knocked 
against  the  tug  with  a  jar  that  made  everything 
rattle.  It  was  time  for  supper,  and  the  potatoes 
were  on  to  boil  and  the  tea-kettle  was  just  begin- 
ning to  sing,  when  a  huge  wave  lifted  us  up  and 
hurled  us  against  the  tug.     Over  went  potatoes, 


ON  THE  KOOTENAY  171 

tea-kettle,  kerosene  can  and  everything  else  that 
was  not  nailed  down,  while  the  dishes  flew  from 
their  resting-places  and  smashed  to  pieces  on  the 
floor.  Who  cares?  Certain  members  of  the  party 
did  not,  at  any  rate,  for  they  had  lost  all  interest 
in  the  food  supply,  and  were  in  retirement.  Huge 
joke,  to  be  sea-sick  on  a  house-boat !  The  captain 
yells  from  the  tug  that  we  must  abandon  the 
thought  of  making  Midge  Creek  that  night,  and 
heads  for  Pilot  Bay,  across  the  lake.  Blessed 
haven !  In  a  landlocked  harbour  anchor  is  dropped 
and  in  a  short  time  order  is  brought  out  of  chaos, 
and  the  discouraged  members  of  the  party  regain 
their  appetites. 

At  four  o'clock  the  next  morning  we  are  awak- 
ened by  the  chugging  of  the  tug.  Day  is  just 
breaking,  and  the  lake  is  as  smooth  as  the  floor 
of  a  bowling  alley.  Three  hours  later  we  are  tied 
up  to  a  sandy  beach  on  the  west  shore  of  the  lake, 
and  vacation  has  really  begun.  Not  a  house  is  to 
be  seen  except  two  or  three  in  the  distance  on  the 
opposite  shore.  Ten  rods  away,  to  the  north,  a 
mountain  stream  comes  rushing  down  the  canon 
and  goes  billowing  far  out  into  the  lake.  At  the 
south  end  of  the  beach  a  giant  mass  of  bare  rock 
lifts  itself  into  the  air,  while  the  mountains  are  all 
about  us.  Here  and  there  a  snowy  peak  looms 
into  the  blue.  The  lake  dimples  and  smiles  under 
a  cloudless  sky,  and  murmurs  a  gentle  welcome  as 
it  laps  upon  the  gravelly  beach.    This  is  a  beautiful 


172  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

world,  and  nowhere  more  beautiful  than  on  the 
shores  of  the  Kootenay. 

What  about  the  fishing?  In  view  of  the  dictum 
recently  rendered  by  certain  inordinately  good 
people  and  recorded  in  one  of  our  great  religious 
weeklies,  that  question  is  clearly  out  of  order.  It 
has  been  decided  by  those  who  have  no  question  as 
to  their  infallibility  that  it  is  wicked  to  catch  fish. 
(Poor  Peter!  How  thoroughly  ashamed  of  him- 
self he  would  be  were  he  living  in  this  day  of 
ethical  enlightenment.)  Let  it  be  understood 
before  proceeding  further,  that  our  action  has 
historic  precedent  in  the  well-known  case  of  the 
boy  and  the  woodchuck.  We  had  to  fish.  We 
were  forty  miles  from  the  base  of  supplies.  The 
Doctor  and  the  Junior  and  the  girls  and  the  head 
of  the  house  and  the  Chinaman  and  the  Preacher 
must  eat  or  perish.  As  each  and  all  manifested  a 
strong  prejudice  against  perishing,  some  one  must 
fish.  The  Preacher  offers  himself  as  a  hesitating 
violator  of  that  high-toned,  transcendental  morality 
which  places  fishing  among  the  mortal  sins,  and 
the  Doctor  aids  and  abets  him. 

Just  here  listen  to  a  word  of  advice :  If  you  will 
fish,  provide  yourself  with  a  friend  so  unselfish  that 
he  will  joyously  perjure  himself  by  declaring  that 
he  does  not  care  anything  about  the  sport  and  pre- 
fers to  row  the  boat.  It  is  important  to  have  good 
tackle,  carefully  selected  flies,  a  rod  that  will  stand 
strain  and  a  line  that  runs   freely;   but  the  sine 


ON  THE  KOOTENAY  173 

qua  non  is  a  companion  whose  generosity  is  so 
much  greater  than  your  own  that  he  will  insist 
upon  turning  himself  into  a  motor  for  your  benefit. 
Such  a  man  is  the  Doctor.  May  all  blessings  rest 
upon  him !  Those  golden  hours  on  the  Kootenay 
were  enriched  by  his  companionship,  and  his  un- 
selfishness materially  increased  the  Preacher's 
score. 

Now  we  are  off.  The  trunks  have  been  un- 
packed, the  "  girls  "  are  tidying  up  the  boat,  the 
Junior  is  busy  floating  his  ships  from  the  shore, 
and  the  row-boat,  with  the  Doctor  at  the  oars  and 
the  Preacher  waving  his  rod,  is  rounding  the  point 
of  rocks  to  the  south.  Repeated  casts  of  the  flies 
find  nothing  doing.  At  last  there  is  a  swirl  and  a 
tug.  But  what  sort  of  a  trout  is  it  at  the  end  of 
the  line?  He  pulls  and  plunges,  but  there  is  never 
a  jump  nor  any  indication  of  a  purpose  to  break 
water.  It  is  not  much  of  a  fight,  anyhow,  and  the 
net  lifts  in  a  fish  the  like  of  which  neither  Doctor 
nor  Preacher  has  ever  seen  before.  Large  head, 
enormous  mouth,  brownish  back  and  sides  with 
yellowish  belly,  he  looks  something  like  a  salt  water 
ling.  And  that  was  the  sum  total  of  the  morning's 
catch.  Not  much  slaughter  of  the  innocents  about 
that !  We  ventured  to  cook  that  unclassified 
victim,  and  he  was  not  bad  as  food  for  the  starving. 
Later  on  the  Doctor  learned  from  the  hermit — of 
course  we  had  a  hermit — that  the  stranger  is  called 
a  "  squaw-fish,"  although  it  is  said  that  the  proper 


174  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

name  is  "  squawk-fish,"  so  called  from  the  noise  it 
makes  when  caught. 

Is  this  all  that  the  far-famed  Kootenay  can 
furnish?  Must  it  be  told  to  future  generations 
that  two  able-bodied  men  spent  a  half -day  of 
strenuous  toil  and  only  captured  a  plebeian  squaw- 
fish?  Well,  tell  it  if  you  must,  but  when  you  get 
started  keep  right  on  and  tell  the  whole  story. 
That  afternoon  we.  deserted  the  calm  water  along 
the  shore  and  struck  out  for  the  tumbling  billows 
made  by  Midge  Creek  as  it  rushes  into  the  lake. 
Then  and  there  the  sport  began.  The  trout  were  at 
home  and  receiving  callers.  The  gaudy  "  Parma- 
chene  Belle  "  had  no  sooner  struck  the  water  than 
snap — whizz — jump — splash — landing  net — two- 
pounder,  and  then  it  all  began  over  again.  We 
had  struck  our  gait. 

What  fishing!  Did  you  ever  catch  a  rainbow 
trout?  If  not,  you  have  yet  to  live.  He  is  a  com- 
bination of  gymnast  and  dynamo.  When  com- 
munications have  been  established,  he  at  once 
begins  a  series  of  acrobatic  performances  which 
leave  no  doubt  as  to  his  agility.  The  writer 
counted  twelve  jumps  made  by  one  fish  before  he 
was  brought  to  net.  These  were  not  little  dis- 
turbances of  the  surface  of  the  water,  just  enough 
to  give  notice  of  his  whereabouts — but  clean  leaps. 
How  high?  How  would  three  feet  do?  If  that's 
too  much,  take  off  an  inch.  Especially  fascinating 
was  the  sport  after  sundown,  when  the  dusk  was 


ON  THE  KOOTENAY  175 

upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  Then,  with  a  "  white 
miller "  as  lure,  we  circled  the  broken  water, 
knowing  not  where  the  fly  lighted,  but  certain  that 
it  would  be  seen  and  craved  by  some  hungry  trout. 

But  it  was  in  the  early  morning  that  the  most 
wonderful  phenomena  were  seen.  The  writer 
pledges  his  word  that  if  he  had  not  been  there  he 
would  not  believe  it  (the  reader  is  not  expected  to 
credit  the  statement),  but  the  Preacher,  on  divers 
and  sundry  occasions,  left  his  berth  before  sunrise 
and  went  out  to  fish.  The  grey  is  in  the  eastern 
sky,  and  the  lake  motionless.  Nothing  breaks  the 
silence  but  the  roar  of  the  creek  or  the  sharp  chal- 
lenge of  a  chipmunk.  Rowing  slowly  along  the 
shore,  the  world  seems  as  fresh  as  if  newly  born. 
A  tip-up  teeters  along  the  beach,  a  thrush  sings 
his  morning  hymn  of  praise  among  the  trees  on 
the  mountain  side,  and  now  the  sun  peeps  over  a 
notch  in  the  eastern  hills.  Did  you  ever  see  more 
exquisite  colouring  than  the  brown  of  the  moss 
upon  that  rock,  or  the  delicate  shades  of  green  in 
that  clump  of  trees?  The  fish  are  not  early  risers, 
or,  if  they  are  up,  have  not  found  their  appetites; 
but  what  matters  it?  Here  are  peace  and  beauty; 
God's  good  world  at  its  best. 

Just  one  little  story  about  the  big  trout.  It  was 
close  by  a  face  of  rock  that  rose  sheer  from  the 
water  for  fifty  feet  or  more,  that  we  struck  him. 
Up  and  again  up,  in  mighty  leaps  clear  from  the 
water  he  flung  himself.     With  great  surges  he 


176  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

carried  out  the  line,  and  then  allowed  himself  to 
be  coaxed  gently  toward  the  boat.  When  the 
Preacher  fancied  that  the  fight  was  well  over  and 
the  great  fish  could  be  seen  plainly  but  a  few  feet 
from  the  boat,  there  was  another  rush,  and  this 
straight  down.  There  were  one  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  of  line  on  the  reel,  and  the  old  warrior  took 
out  every  inch  of  it.  Where  did  he  go  ?  To  China 
for  aught  the  writer  knows — but  he  came  back. 
Slowly  and  reluctantly  he  yielded  to  the  steady 
strain,  and  at  last  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  a 
dream  of  beauty.  Three  pounds  and  a  quarter! 
The  biggest  rainbow  trout  caught  in  the  Kootenay 
this  summer;  so  the  Nelson  fishermen  aver! 
Hooray  !  !  ! 

By  this  time,  the  members  of  the  gentler  sex 
are  saying,  "  It  must  have  been  deadly  clull  for 
the  '  girls.'  "  Far  from  it.  Ask  the  Preacheress, 
and  she  will  tell  you  that  every  moment  of  every 
day  was  full  of  happiness.  That  you  may  have  a 
glimpse  at  some  of  the  experiences  which  helped 
to  make  the  hours  pass  pleasantly,  lrsten  to  the 
tale  of  the  chipmunks.  The  whole  family  looked 
at  us  askance  when  we  first  tied  up  near  their  home. 
Just  a  hurried  scamper  along  the  logs,  and  then 
away  they  fled  with  a  warning  chatter.  Two  days 
had  not  passed  before  they  were  eating  crumbs 
thrown  out  for  them.  On  the  third  day  their  sus- 
picions were  so  far  allayed  that  they  ate  from  the 
hand  of  one  of  the  party.     After  that,  not  a  day 


ON  THE  KOOTENAY  177 

passed,  and  hardly  an  hour  of  daylight,  but  some 
one  could  be  seen  holding  out  a  crust  at  which  a 
chipmunk  was  gnawing  away.  They  lost  all  fear 
and  would  crawl  over  the  knees  and  sometimes 
up  on  the  shoulders  in  search  of  rations.  They 
would  allow  us  to  stroke  their  heads  and  feel  of 
the  cheek-pouches  in  which  they  stored  away  food, 
without  raising  the  slightest  objections.  When  we 
left  they  had  come  to  seem  like  old  friends.  They 
deserved  better  treatment  at  our  hands  than  was 
accorded  them,  and  the  writer's  heart  is  filled  with 
self-reproach  as  he  recalls  the  dastardly  act  with 
which  we  closed  our  relations  with  these  little 
friends.  We  gave  them  Jimmie's  pie!  (Jimmie 
was  the  Chinese  cook.)  Near  the  close  of  our 
stay  he  manufactured  the  most  wonderful  and  in 
every  way  impossible  pie  ever  achieved  by  human 
ingenuity.  One  after  another,  every  member  of 
the  party  attacked  that  combination,  only  to  suffer 
defeat.  It  was  still  intact  when  the  time  came  to 
leave.  It  would  have  had  abiding  interest  as  a 
specimen,  but  there  was  danger  that  it  might  be 
broken  in  transit,  so  we  left  it  for  those  confiding 
chipmunks.  One  thing  is  sure,  if  living,  they  must 
be  woefully  discouraged. 

Jimmie  was  a  character.  What  he  did  not  know 
about  the  English  language  was  equalled  only  by 
his  abysmal  ignorance  of  cooking.  Asked  to  bring 
some  break  fast- food  for  the  Junior,  he  disappeared 
kitchenward,  and  when,  after  a  long  absence,  one 


178  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

of  the  party  went  in  search  of  him,  he  was  dis- 
covered proudly  bearing  toward  the  table — a 
canteloupe.  But  Jimmie  did  his  best,  and  that  was 
quite  enough  to  satisfy  the  happy  members  of  our 
little  family.  He  could  boil  potatoes  well,  and  the 
water  that  he  brought  from  Midge  Creek  was 
always  first-class.  Then,  too,  we  had  cooks  of  our 
own. 

"  Time  to  stop,"  do  I  hear  the  weary  reader  say? 
Very  likely,  but  the  half  has  not  been  told.  You 
should  hear  about  the  "  hermit,"  with  his  long, 
white  hair  and  beard,  his  piercing  eyes,  his  little 
shack  and  garden  and  the  romantic  love-affair 
which  is  said  to  have  driven  him  into  voluntary 
exile.  You  have  not  heard  of  the  hard  tramp  up 
the  canon,  past  almost  innumerable  cascades  and 
rapids,  back  and  upwards  until  a  pool  is  reached 
where  a  great  throng  of  mountain  trout  is 
assembled.  That  marvellous  rainbow  which 
followed  the  Sunday  afternoon  storm  must  be 
ignored.  The  Junior's  sand-wells,  his  fall  from 
the  gang-plank  resulting  in  a  broken  collar-bone, 
the  fracas  with  a  colony  of  yellow-jackets,  the 
night  of  storm  when  we  feared  lest  the  cables 
break  and  we  go  drifting  at  the  mercy  of  wind 
and  waves — but  what's  the  use?  You  will  never 
know  what  you  have  missed  through  your  insis- 
tence that  you've  had  enough.  The  writer  had 
intended  to  tell  of  the  total  depravity  of  those 
trout,  manifested  on  the  Sundays  of  our  stay  with 


ON  THE  KOOTENAY  179 

them,  as  they  gathered  en  masse  at  the  stern  of 
the  house-boat  and  dared  the  Preacher  to  cast  a 
fly.  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  to  stop  right  here, 
for  words  cannot  be  found  with  which  to  describe 
the  ministerial  struggle. 


SKEGEMOG 
POINT 


Angling  is  an  art,  and  an  art 
worth  learning;  the  question  is 
whether  you  be  capable  of  learning 
it.  For  Angling  is  something  like 
Poetry,  men  are  to  be  born  so.  I 
mean  with  inclinations  to  it,  though 
both  may  be  heightened  by  discourse 
and  practice.  But  he  that  hopes  to 
be  a  good  Angler,  must  not  only 
bring  an  inquiring,  searching,  ob- 
serving wit;  but  he  must  bring  a 
large  measure  of  hope  and  patience, 
and  a  love  and  propensity  to  the  art 
itself;  but  by  having  once  got  and 
practised  it,  then  doubt  not  but 
Angling  will  prove  to  be  so  pleasant, 
that  it  will  prove  to  be  like  virtue, 
a  reivard  to  itself. — Izaak  Walton, 
The  Complete  Angler. 


XIV 


SKEGEMOG  POINT 


HAT'S  that?" 

The  elect  lady  should  have  been 
asleep  instead  of  sitting  up  in  bed, 
an  animated  interrogation  point, 
for  the  hour  was  late  and  the  ride 
from  Chicago  that  day  had  been 
hot  and  dusty  and  fatiguing. 

"What's  what?  "  grunted  the  sleepy  partner  of 
her  joys. 

"  That  noise.  Don't  you  hear  it  ?  It  sounds  like 
a  band  playing  in  the  distance." 

When  this  suggestion  finally  penetrated  the  semi- 
conscious mind  of  the  husband,  the  absurdity  of 
the  idea  called  forth  certain  emphatic  if  not  con- 
vincing negative  arguments,  all  of  which  were 
met  with  the  puzzling  query,  "  If  it's  not  a  band, 
what  is  it?" 

"That's  what  I'll  soon  find  out,"  answered  the 
183 


184  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

skeptic,  as  he  arose  to  begin  a  serious  investigation. 

The  noise  was  unmistakable;  faint  but  clear,  and 
from  without.  Approaching  the  window  the  noise 
became  more  distinct,  but  the  character  of  it 
remained  a  mystery.  Bands  are  not  indigenous  in 
rural  districts,  and  no  large  town  was  near.  With 
nose  pressed  against  the  window-screen  in  a  vain 
effort  to  see  everything  within  a  radius  of  five 
miles,  the  explorer  suddenly  realized  that  the  music 
was  right  at  hand,  and  the  musicians,  in  countless 
numbers,  were  separated  from  his  face  only  by 
the  wire  netting.  Mosquitoes?  Exactly,  and  their 
name  was  legion.  If  night  had  suddenly  turned  to 
day  one  could  not  have  seen  anything  through  that 
window  for  the  cloud  of  mosquitoes.  New  Jersey 
may  justly  boast  of  the  size  and  ferocity  of  her 
mosquitoes,  but  for  numbers  Skegemog  fears  no 
rival. 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  some  reader  will 
say  to  himself,  "  I  wouldn't  stay  in  such  a  place." 
Well,  we  stayed,  not  because  of  the  pests,  but  in 
spite  of  them,  and  because  they  formed  the  only 
drawback  to  one's  enjoyment.  The  Lodge  was  on 
a  point  of  land  with  water  on  three  sides,  the 
table  was  exceptionally  satisfactory,  the  guests 
were  congenial  and  the  black  bass  never  failed  to 
respond  promptly  to  our  advances.  What  are  a 
few  mosquitoes,  more  or  less,  when  such  para- 
disaical conditions  obtain? 

To  many  people  a  bass  is  a  bass,  and  that's  all 


SKEGEMOG  POINT  185 

there  is  to  it.  To  be  sure,  they  recognize  the  fact 
that  some  bass  are  larger  than  others,  but  the 
process  of  differentiation  begins  and  ends  with 
the  table  of  weights  and  measures.  Skegemog  bass 
belong  to  the  small-mouth  family,  and  there  is  as 
much  difference  between  these  and  the  big-mouth 
variety  as  between  a  split-bamboo  rod  and  a  saw- 
log.  The  small-mouth  is  the  aristocrat  of  the  bass 
family.  He  is  more  dainty  in  his  tastes,  more 
plucky,  and  has  more  brains  than  his  brother  of 
the  more  generous  facial  opening. 

And  the  small-mouth  bass  are  not  all  alike.  The 
marked  differences  seen  in  children  of  the  same 
family  are  duplicated  in  the  individuality  shown 
by  fish  belonging  to  the  same  species.  The  bass 
whose  home  is  in  swift  waters  is  a  stronger,  more 
tireless  fighter  than  his  brother  of  the  lake.  Of 
two  bass  living  side  by  side  in  the  same  water,  one 
may  be  logy  and  lazy  and  indisposed  to  strenuous 
exertion  when  hooked,  while  the  other  is  brought 
to  net  only  after  he  has  tried  every  dodge  known 
to  fishdom  and  exhausted  every  atom  of  his 
strength. 

It  was  while  fishing  on  the  reef  just  west  of 
the  Point  that  the  invalid  bass  was  taken.  Each 
fisherman  has  his  favourite  method  of  capturing 
bass.  One  uses  live  frogs  and  casts  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  rushes  or  weeds  along  shore.  Another 
trolls  with  many  yards  of  line  out,  and  a  piece  of 
pork-rind  or  a  minnow   fastened  to  the  spoon. 


186  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

Still  a  third  anchors  his  boat  and  still-fishes  with 
live  minnows.  A  fourth  method,  and  one  which 
we  prefer  to  any  of  the  others,  is  to  row  slowly 
over  promising  ground,  letting  the  minnow  sink 
well  down  and  keeping  it  constantly  moving.  It 
was  while  fishing  in  this  manner  and  after  taking 
six  or  eight  fine  fish,  that  a  feeble  tug  at  the  line 
signalled  the  presence  of  the  invalid.  He  came  in 
with  scarce  a  struggle;  in  fact  he  seemed  to  be 
relieved  to  have  his  troubles  ended.  As  no  expert 
was  present  to  diagnose  the  case  we  shall  never 
know  from  what  malady  he  suffered,  but  he  was 
a  sick  fish.  If  he  had  been  a  man  the  pallor  and 
emaciation  might  have  indicated  tuberculosis,  al- 
though he  did  not  cough.  He  had  a  giant  frame, 
and  in  health  would  have  weighed  five  pounds  or 
more.  As  it  was,  he  barely  went  two  pounds. 
As  he  was  still  able  to  wiggle  a  little  after  the 
weighing  process  was  over,  he  was  returned  to 
the  water,  where,  after  lying  seemingly  lifeless  for 
a  moment,  he  feebly  swam  away.  Just  before  he 
disappeared  he  turned  a  reproachful  look  towards 
the  fisherman,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Why  didn't 
you  put  an  end  to  my  suffering?  I'm  disappointed 
in  you."  If  we  ever  catch  another  invalid  fish 
we'll  kill  him  on  the  spot. 

On  a  certain  day,  among  the  new  arrivals  was  a 
Cleric  and  his  Satellite.  The  Cleric  was  a  genial 
and  interesting  man  and  an  enthusiastic  fisherman. 
That  night  he  asked  many  questions   about  the 


SKEGEMOG  POINT  187 

fishing,  and  calmly  announced  that  the  next  day 
he  would  show  us  how  to  catch  bass.  Then  the 
Satellite  took  the  floor  and  descanted  at  length 
upon  the  prowess  of  his  friend  and  the  piscatorial 
victories  won  by  him  on  other  waters  and  in  other 
days.  Not  a  word  was  said  in  reply  by  the  men  of 
the  company,  some  of  whom  had  fancied  that  they 
knew  a  little  about  bass  fishing;  but  on  more  than 
one  face  there  was  a  grim  look  which  betokened 
something  a  little  short  of  perfect  happiness. 

The  next  morning  the  Cleric  and  his  Satellite 
were  up  bright  and  early,  being  the  first  to  start 
out  upon  the  day's  fishing.  Later  on,  three  other 
boats  put  out,  each  containing  a  man  who  had 
vowed  to  beat  that  Cleric  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 
When  night  came  and  the  records  of  the  day's 
catches  were  compared,  it  was  found  that  the  high- 
hook  had  brought  in  eighteen  bass,  another  twelve, 
a  third  eight,  while  the  invincible  Cleric  had  taken 
but  two.  Never  again,  as  the  guests  gathered  on 
the  porch  at  nightfall,  did  the  Cleric  expatiate  upon 
his  skill  as  a  fisher  for  bass,  and  no  more  did  the 
Satellite  recount  the  marvellous  exploits  of  his 
hero.  On  the  faces  of  the  other  fishermen  there 
rested  a  look  of  deep  satisfaction  and  in  their  eyes 
one  might  detect  a  gleam  of  amusement.  It  isn't 
necessary  to  brag  about  your  achievements.  Just 
do  things,  and  let  that  brag  for  you. 

But  the  Cleric  was  a  good  fellow  and  his  stories 
helped  to  pass  many  an  evening  pleasantly.    One, 


188  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

that   may   serve   as   a   sample,   has   stuck  in  our 
memory : 

"  Where  a  railroad  crosses  a  Michigan  river  is 
a  deep  pool  under  the  bridge.  As  a  fisherman  was 
casting  in  this  pool  one  day,  he  had  a  mighty 
strike  followed  by  the  fierce  whizzing  of  his  reel 
as  the  fish  ran  out  the  line.  Before  the  man 
realized  what  was  happening  the  line  parted  and 
the  fish  was  free.  In  the  afternoon  he  returned 
with  a  new  and  stronger  line,  only  to  repeat  the 
experience  of  the  morning.  Then  salmon  tackle 
was  called  into  use,  which  was  promptly  smashed 
by  the,  as  yet,  unseen  denizen  of  the  pool.  By  this 
time  the  fisherman  had  parted  company  with  all 
his  cherished  principles  of  sportsmanship,  and 
vowed  that  he  would  capture  that  fish  even  if  he 
had  to  shoot  it.  Abjuring  the  rod,  he  next  em- 
ployed a  muskallonge  line  and  a  cod-hook,  baiting 
with  a  five-inch  minnow.  The  fish  responded 
promptly,  and  the  big  line  just  as  promptly  parted 
when  this  Sandow  of  the  finny  tribe  had  gotten 
fully  into  action.  As  a  result  of  deep  reflection 
the  fisherman  then  bought  a  clothes-line  and  em- 
ployed a  neighbouring  blacksmith  to  make  him  a 
hook  big  enough  and  strong  enough  to  hold  a 
shark.  Baiting  the  hook  with  a  pound  of  raw  beef 
and  giving  the  line  a  half-hitch  around  a  near-by 
stump,  he  once  more  challenged  his  unseen  foe. 
For  three  hours  a  mighty  battle  raged.  The 
blacksmith,  two  section  hands  and  a  farmer  joined 


SKEGEMOG  POINT  189 

forces  with  the  fisherman,  and  the  five  of  them 
finally  succeeded  in  landing  the  fish.  After  quiet- 
ing him  with  a  club,  they  began  to  wonder  at  the 
fight  which  he  had  put  up.  While  he  was  large — 
some  twenty-five  inches  in  length — his  size  did  not 
fully  explain  matters.  Then  one  of  them  under- 
took to  turn  the  fish  over  with  his  foot,  and  could 
not  stir  him.  He  used  both  hands  and  failed. 
Then  the  five  together  tackled  the  job  and  barely 
succeeded.  Evidently,  here  was  an  extraordi- 
narily heavy  fish,  and  the  phenomenon  was  ex- 
plained only  when  they  cut  the  fish  open  and  found 
him  full  of  railroad  frogs." 

That  story  brings  to  mind  the  champion  story- 
teller of  northern  Michigan  who  acted  as  occasional 
oarsman  for  the  Skegemog  guests.  He  was  gen- 
erally known  as  the  "  Cheerful  Liar,"  and  his 
kinship  to  Baron  Munchausen  was  put  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  by  the  variety  and  character 
of  his  stories.  After  a  somewhat  careful  study  of 
the  man,  at  least  one  of  his  occasional  companions 
became  convinced  that  he  did  not  prevaricate  con- 
sciously. His  was  simply  a  case  of  an  over-grown 
and  exuberant  imagination.  Given  a  tiny  bit  of 
fact  as  a  starter,  that  imagination  began  to  caper 
about  without  let  or  hindrance  until  the  most  in- 
credible story  resulted.  He  was  a  great  comrade, 
always  good-natured,  always  personally  interested 
in  the  fishing,  a  lover  of  the  woods  and  the  water, 
ready  at  all  times  with  an  interesting  story  and 


190  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

never  telling  the  same  one  twice.  What  more  can 
one  reasonably  ask  in  an  oarsman? 

In  earlier  days  he  had  lived  in  another  part  of 
the  state,  and  most  of  his  alleged  adventures  were 
localized  on  or  near  Clearwater  Lake.  As  accu- 
rately as  we  could  compute,  the  fish  which  he 
claimed  to  have  caught  in  this  one  lake  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  cover  the  southern  peninsula  of 
Michigan  to  a  depth  of  seventeen  feet,  six  inches, 
and  then  leave  some  four  hundred  fish  unused. 
One  of  the  most  fascinating  of  his  many  de- 
lightful yarns  concerned  his  adventure  with  a  giant 
pickerel : 

"  Cousin  Jim  Smith  and  I,"  the  narrator  began, 
M  were  fishin'  one  lowery  day  on  Clearwater  Lake 
in  a  cranky  little  boat,  when  Jim  hooked  on  to  a 
pick'rel.  The  fish  put  up  a  tough  fight  and  Jim 
got  excited  and  kept  standin'  up  in  the  boat  and  I 
a-yellin'  to  him  to  se'down.  Bimeby  Jim  got  'im 
into  the  boat,  and  then  jumped  up  again,  and  over 
we  went.  When  I  saw  we  were  goin'  I  grabbed  for 
the  line  and  got  holt  just  above  the  spoon.  That 
pick'rel  pulled  and  I  hung  on  and  he  took  me  clear 
to  the  bottom  in  eighteen  foot  of  water.  When  we 
got  down  there,  I  grabbed  that  fish  with  both  hands, 
tucked  him  under  my  left  arm,  gave  a  big  spring 
and  shot  up  to  the  top  of  the  water.  What  does 
that  pick'rel  do  as  soon  as  we  reached  the  top, 
but  slip  out  from  under  my  arm  and  make  for 
the  bottom  again,  me  hangin'  on  to  the  line  close 


SKEGEMOG  POINT  191 

to  the  spoon.  When  we  reached  the  bottom  I 
tucked  him  under  my  arm  again,  gave  another 
spring,  came  to  the  top ;  the  fish  squirmed  out  again, 
and — well,  I  don't  know  how  many  times  we 
made  the  trip  up  and  back,  but  just  when  I  was 
about  tuckered,  some  fellows  in  another  boat  came 
up  and  pulled  us  both  in.  That  pick'rel  weighed 
twenty-two  pounds." 

The  thoughtful  critic  will  easily  separate  the 
element  of  historic  fact  from  the  mythical  accre- 
tions in  this  story,  and  be  able  to  retain  Jim  and  a 
fishing  trip  and  a  big  "  pick'rel,"  even  if  compelled 
to  reject  the  account  of  the  numerous  subaqueous 
excursions. 

In  many  of  the  larger  inland  lakes  of  Michigan 
lake-trout  may  be  found,  and  summer  visitors  vary 
the  sport  of  bass  fishing  with  excursions  after 
trout.  Early  in  the  season  these  fish  are  found  in 
shallow  water,  along  the  shore,  and  may  be  taken 
by  ordinary  trolling;  but  as  the  weather  grows 
warm  the  trout  retreat  to  the  deepest  part  of  the 
lake,  where  they  can  be  captured  only  by  some  un- 
usual means.  The  method  employed  does  not 
appeal  strongly  to  a  true  sportsman,  but  he  can 
afford  to  try  it,  once,  at  least,  for  the  sake  of  the 
novelty.  At  the  foot  of  Elk  Lake  lived  an  old  man 
who  was  a  past-master  in  the  art  of  taking  these 
deep-lying  trout,  and  to  him  the  visitor  turned 
when  he  grew  satiated  with  bass  fishing  and  sighed 
for  new  worlds  to  conquer.    The  old  fisherman  has 


192  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

a  big,  heavy  boat,  in  the  back  end  of  which  he  has 
fixed  a  windlass  holding  a  thousand  feet  of  fine, 
copper  wire.  The  trout  are  lying  in  about  three 
hundred  feet  of  water,  and  no  ordinary  line  will 
allow  the  trolling  spoon  to  sink  deep  enough  to 
reach  those  dim  recesses.  With  all  the  copper  wire 
paid  out,  the  old  man  rows  slowly  over  the  deepest 
parts  of  the  lake,  while  the  tourist  sits  holding  the 
handle  of  the  windlass,  ready  to  begin  turning  at 
the  least  suspicion  of  a  strike.  Now  and  then  there 
is  a  false  alarm,  and  the  excited  fisherman  cranks  in 
a  thousand  feet  of  wire  only  to  find  a  piece  of  wood 
or  weed  fastened  to  the  spoon-hook.  When,  by 
chance,  a  trout  is  hooked,  the  sensation  differs  little 
from  that  experienced  in  winding  up  a  bucket  of 
water  from  a  deep  well.  The  fish  has  not  travelled 
far  in  his  involuntary  journey  through  the  water 
before  he  loses  all  ambition,  fills  with  water  and 
becomes  no  more  obstreperous  than  any  other  in- 
animate object  would  be  when  fastened  to  sixty 
rods  of  line.  These  trout  are  delicious  eating,  and 
run  as  high  as  twenty-five  pounds,  or  even  more 
in  weight. 

Other  trout,  the  real,  speckled  brook-trout,  are 
found  in  the  streams  flowing  into  the  lake,  and 
more  than  one  delightful  day  was  spent  in  pursuit 
of  them.  After  all,  there  is  no  other  fishing  quite 
like  that.  It  is  not  altogether  because  brook-trout 
are  the  cleanliest,  handsomest  of  fish,  or  that  they 
are  so  gamey  and  so  toothsome  that  this  sport  is 


SKEGEMOG  POINT  193 

easily  the  prime  favourite  with  fishermen.  The 
brook  itself  is  a  joy.  Just  to  company  with  it 
makes  life  worth  while.  It  chatters  to  you,  laughs 
at  you,  plays  hide-and-go-seek  with  you,  and  never 
gets  to  be  an  old  story.  Sitting  on  an  old  root, 
just  where  a  log  fallen  across  the  stream  makes  a 
good  hiding-place  for  the  shy  fish,  it  doesn't  matter 
very  much  whether  you  catch  anything  or  not.  The 
checkers  of  sunlight  are  dancing  all  about  you,  a 
red  squirrel  is  scolding  at  you  from  a  neighbouring 
tree,  a  mink  may  go  stealing  by  if  you  are  quiet, 
and  over  all  is  a  great  peace  which  steals  into  the 
heart,  filling  it  with  profound  contentment. 

One  day  we  followed  far  up  the  brook,  so  far 
that  when  the  night  fell  and  we  saw  a  farmer's 
home  across  the  fields,  it  was  deemed  wise  to  seek 
lodging  there  for  the  night  rather  than  to  attempt 
the  long  trip  back  to  the  Point  through  the  dark- 
ness. The  farmer  and  his  wife  were  hospitable 
and  kindly,  furnished  us  with  an  appetizing  supper 
and,  later  on,  showed  us  to  a  tiny  bed-room  under 
the  eaves.  It  was  not  the  fault  of  the  house-wife, 
for  the  buildings  were  old,  but  a  brief  stay  in  that 
bed  proved  beyond  peradventure  that  it  had  been 
preempted.  We  did  not  "fight  and  run  away"; 
we  ran  without  even  beginning  to  fight.  Stealing 
quietly  down  stairs  we  made  for  the  neighbouring 
barn  and  the  haymow,  where  we  slept  untroubled 
by  anything  more  vicious  than  an  occasional 
"  daddy-long-legs."     Then,  in  the  early  morning, 


194  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

back  to  the  brook  again  and  to  trout  that  fairly 
tumbled  over  one  another  in  their  eagerness  to  grab 
the  "  Silver  Doctor  "  as  the  light  rod  sent  it  flitting 
to  and  fro  over  the  face  of  the  stream. 

When  one  of  the  guests  proposed,  one  evening, 
that  we  all  go  on  an  excursion  up  the  lakes  the 
next  day,  there  was  hearty  and  unanimous  assent. 
The  lakes  that  wash  the  shores  of  Skegemog  Point 
are  only  two  of  a  series,  all  connected  by  thorough- 
fares. A  steamer  of  light  draught  can  go  the  whole 
length  of  the  chain,  some  twenty-five  miles  or  more. 
The  next  morning  proved  ideal  for  such  a  trip. 
The  sky  was  a  deep  blue  with  just  enough  fleecy 
clouds  in  it  to  furnish  the  needed  contrast.  The 
wind  set  little  wavelets  to  dancing  on  every  inch 
of  the  lake,  but  never  grew  troublesome  and  un- 
pleasant. The  farmers  were  at  work  in  their  grain 
fields  on  either  shore,  the  luncheon  was  excellent, 
and  nothing  occurred  to  mar  the  pleasure  of  the 
day.  Why  write  of  an  experience  so  common  and 
so  uneventful?  Just  because  of  what  the  day 
brought  to  one  member  of  the  little  company. 

Among  the  excursionists  was  a  man  in  middle 
life  whose  mother  had  gone  home  to  God  the 
previous  Christmas-time.  He  had  seen  the  light 
go  out  of  her  eyes,  had  held  her  hand  in  his  as 
she  breathed  her  last,  had  stood  by  the  new-made 
grave  in  the  village  cemetery  as  they  lowered  the 
casket  into  the  earth.  The  snow  lay  deep  upon  the 
ground  and   was  steadily   falling  as  the   friends 


SKEGEMOG  POINT  195 

turned  away  from  the  burial  and,  Christian  man 
though  he  was,  that  son  could  not  feel  that  his 
mother  was.  Have  you  ever  felt  that  one  who  has 
been  a  part  of  your  life,  is  not  only  dead,  but  has 
utterly  and  entirely  ceased  to  be?  He  told  himself 
that  she  whom  he  had  loved  so  passionately  was 
safe  in  our  Father's  house,  and  he  believed  it — but 
he  could  not  feel  it.  The  days  and  weeks  and 
months  had  come  and  gone,  and  still  there  had 
come  to  his  heart — whatever  his  head  might  affirm 
■ — no  comforting  sense  that  his  mother  still  lived, 
safe-sheltered  in  a  better  country.  He  was  sitting 
by  himself  that  day,  far  up  in  the  bow  of  the  boat, 
drinking  in  the  beauty  of  earth  and  sky  and  lake. 
It  all  brought  back  other  and  golden  days  when 
he  and  his  mother  had  been  together  on  the  ma- 
jestic St.  Lawrence,  and  then,  all  at  once — She  was 
at  hand.  He  felt  her  presence  like  a  benediction. 
He  heard  no  voice,  saw  no  vision;  but  somehow 
his  soul  sensed  her  nearness,  and  his  sore  heart 
knew  a  comfort  that  has  never  departed  and  never 
lessened  in  the  years  that  have  come  and  gone 
since  that  hour. 


IN  THE 

ALGOMA  WOODS 
—AND  BEFORE 


XV 

IN  THE  ALGOMA  WOODS— AND 
BEFORE 

AVE  you  ever  taken  the  Georgian 
Bay  trip  ? "  asked  the  General 
Passenger  Agent  when  we  sought 
his  advice  as  to  our  annual  outing. 
"  The  scenery  is  beautiful  and  the 
fishing  all  that  heart  could  wish." 
So  it  came  to  pass  that  we  boarded  the  steamer 
at  Sault  Ste.  Marie  for  the  round  trip  of  Georgian 
Bay,  our  tickets  including  generous  stop-over  privi- 
leges. Undoubtedly  "  palatial  "  is  the  proper  term 
to  use  in  describing  a  passenger  steamer,  but  having 
never  lived  in  a  palace  we  are  unable  to  judge  of 
the  fitness  of  the  appellation  as  applied  to  this 
particular  boat.  We  can  affirm,  however,  that  we 
were  very  comfortable,  and  that  the  scenery  quite 
equalled  our  high  expectations.  So  many  people 
have  made  this  trip  and  it  has  been  described  so 
199 


200  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

frequently  and  so  well,  that  the  eulogistic  possibil- 
ities of  the  English  language  were  long  ago  ex- 
hausted in  praise  of  the  beauty  of  this  unsalted 
sea. 

It  will  be  enough  to  say  that  we  made  the  regu- 
lation trip  and  were  quite  orthodox  in  the  matter 
of  admiration.  The  moments  of  enthusiam  over 
the  scenery  were  interspersed  with  periods  of  deep 
reflection;  for  somewhere  along  the  course  of  the 
steamer  we  had  decided  to  stop  off  for  a  stay  of 
some  weeks.  Where  should  it  be?  We  had 
started  with  a  notion  that  the  choice  would  lie 
between  Pantanguishene  and  Parry  Sound;  but  the 
former  place  failed  to  make  a  strong  appeal,  and 
at  Parry  Sound  there  were  too  many  people  and 
too  few  fish. 

On  our  way  down  we  had  touched  at  Manito- 
waning.  When  and  where  had  we  heard  of  this 
place?  Carefully  overhauling  the  odds  and  ends 
stowed  away  in  the  chambers  of  memory,  we  came 
at  last  upon  a  glowing  account,  given  us  some  years 
before  by  a  fisherman  friend,  of  a  vacation  spent 
at  Manitowaning.  Much  of  what  he  said  had  been 
forgotten,  but  not  his  praise  of  the  fishing.  When 
the  captain  of  the  steamer  assured  us  that  there 
was  a  comfortable  hotel  in  the  little  village,  the 
matter  was  settled,  and  Manitowaning  it  was.  It 
may  be  just  as  well  to  exhibit  the  "  fly  in  the  oint- 
ment "  at  once,  and  have  done  with  it.  The  hotel 
had  a  bar,  and  the  drinking  and  the  drunkenness 


IN  THE  ALGOMA  WOODS  201 

went  far  towards  marring  our  enjoyment  of  this 
otherwise  most  delightful  spot. 

Manitou  Lake,  three  miles  from  the  village, 
swarms  with  little-mouth  bass.  One  can  hire  a  rig 
for  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  the  day,  and  many  were 
the  hours  spent  in  close  and  delightful  intercourse 
with  the  inhabitants  of  this  beautiful  body  of  water. 
Bass  are  freaky  fish,  and  one  never  knows  just 
when  they  will  take  a  notion  to  scorn  all  efforts 
at  their  capture.  One  day  Sue  and  the  writer 
drove  over  to  the  lake,  and  those  bass  took  every- 
thing that  was  offered.  In  a  little  sandy  bay, 
where  the  water  was  not  over  four  feet  deep,  we 
anchored  and  began  fishing  with  minnows.  So 
eager  were  the  fish  that  both  of  us  were  kept  busy 
hauling  in  the  victims  and  putting  on  fresh  bait. 
The  Senior  decided  to  try  a  gaudy,  artificial  fly, 
and  the  bass  grabbed  it  with  utter  disregard  of  the 
fact  that  it  resembled  nothing  which  they  had  ever 
seen  before.  The  fishing  went  forward  so  fast 
and  furiously  that  it  was  finally  agreed  to  throw 
back  every  bass  that  was  not  clearly  of  three 
pounds  in  weight,  or  more.  Urged  on  by  the  sport 
of  that  day,  the  whole  family  started  bright  and 
early  the  next  morning  to  duplicate  the  delightful 
experience.  Alas!  some  mysterious  change  had 
come  over  the  "  spirit  of  their  dream  "  in  fishdom. 
Not  a  bass  could  be  found  in  the  little  sandy  bay 
where  they  had  thronged  only  a  short  twenty-four 
hours  before  and,  after  a  day  of  arduous  toil,  the 


202  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

net  results  were  five  bass,  not  one  over  two  pounds. 
If  the  fisherman  were  to  find  an  earthly  paradise 
it  would  be  where  he  could  catch  trout  from  one 
side  of  his  boat  and  little-mouth  bass  from  the 
other.  Next  in  attractiveness  to  this  unrealized 
ideal  must  be  placed  the  spot  where  these  two 
species  of  game  fish  may  both  be  found  within  a 
radius  of  a  few  miles.  In  this  respect  Manito- 
waning  fills  the  bill.  Although  the  village  is  on  an 
island — Grand  Manitoulin — trout  streams  abound, 
and  among  these  the  one  flowing  out  of  Manitou 
Lake  was  highly  recommended  by  local  sportsmen. 
The  favourite  point  was  some  fifteen  miles  distant, 
and  we  were  advised  to  drive  over  in  the  afternoon, 
stay  all  night  at  a  farmer's  nearby,  getting  the 
evening  and  morning  fishing.  That  sounded  at- 
tractive, and  was  promptly  tried  out.  There  may 
be  lazier  horses  than  the  one  we  drove  that  day, 
but  if  so  they  should  be  promptly  executed  for  the 
crime  of  putting  an  unendurable  strain  on  the 
driver's  good  nature.  But  we  finally  arrived  at 
our  destination,  and  could  hardly  wait  to  stable 
Bucephalus,  so  eager  were  we  to  begin  operations 
with  the  trout.  It  was  a  sizable  stream,  with  much 
quick  water  in  sight  as  we  crossed  the  bridge  and, 
in  anticipation,  we  saw  the  big  string  of  noble  fish 
that  we  would  carry  proudly  back  to  Manitowaning 
on  the  morrow.  Must  it  be  told?  When  it  was 
nine  o'clock  that  night  and  too  dark  to  distinguish 
a  favourable  pool  from  a  mud-puddle,  we  turned 


IN  THE  ALGOMA  WOODS  203 

towards  the  farm-house  not  only  without  a  trout, 
but  not  having  had  one  rise  in  response  to  the  in- 
calculable number  of  times  that  the  alluring  flies 
had  been  cast.  The  next  morning,  at  sunrise,  we 
were  on  the  stream  again,  and  four  hours  of  faith- 
ful fishing  brought  in  return  two  small  trout  which 
had  evidently  escaped  from  some  asylum  for 
feeble-minded  fish. 

On  our  way  out  we  had  noticed  an  attractive 
looking  stream  which  we  crossed  some  ten  miles 
from  Manitowaning.  Just  by  the  bridge  over  this 
stream  stood  the  remains  of  an  old  mill,  half  fallen 
down  and  with  the  timbers  of  the  dam  furnishing 
ideal  hiding  places  for  trout.  When  this  spot  was 
reached  on  the  return  trip  the  pull  was  too  strong 
to  be  resisted  and,  hitching  the  apology  for  a  horse 
to  a  nearby  fence,  preparations  were  made  for  a 
foray  upon  the  unsuspecting  fish.  Fly-casting  was 
out  of  the  question  and,  after  choosing  a  new  snood 
of  double  gut  and  covering  the  hook  with  an  ex- 
ceedingly plethoric  angleworm,  the  bait  was  cau- 
tiously dropped  into  the  rushing  waters  at  the 
upper  side  of  the  ruins  of  the  flume.  Slowly  the 
line  was  paid  out  and  the  lure  allowed  to  go  far 
down  out  of  sight.  Zip!  Yank!  Tug! — and  it's  all 
over.  Under  the  conditions,  any  such  thing  as 
playing  the  fish  was  out  of  the  question,  and  the 
straight-away  pull  parted  that  new  snood  as  if  it 
had  been  made  of  a  single  strand  of  cotton  thread. 
Our  humiliation  was  complete,  and  with  a  thor- 


204  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

oughly  chastened  spirit  the  horse  was  untied  and 
the  homeward  journey  resumed.  That  night  as 
we  told  the  champion  fisherman  of  the  village  of 
the  experience  at  the  old  mill,  he  poured  a  little 
balm  upon  our  sore  spirit  by  exclaiming,  "  That's 
no  trout,  that's  a  whale.  There  isn't  a  fisherman 
within  twenty-five  miles  of  the  old  mill  who  has 
not  hooked  that  fish  and  lost  him."  Strange,  isn't 
it,  how  other  men's  ill  fortune  takes  some  measure 
of  the  sting  from  our  own? 

But  this  is  no  tale  of  woe.  On  another  day, 
and  on  the  same  stream  that  flows  by  the  old  mill, 
the  elect-lady  and  her  unworthy  consort  spent  hours 
that  are  a  joy  to  recall.  It  was  only  eleven  miles 
to  the  point  recommended  by  our  friendly  adviser, 
and  the  horse  was  reasonably  ambitious.  We  had 
laid  in  a  supply  of  provisions  and  took  along  a  skil- 
let. A  perfect  day  and  perfect  comradeship,  plenty 
to  eat  and  the  novelty  of  unexplored  territory, 
made  it  certain  that,  fish  or  no  fish,  the  hours  would 
pass  pleasantly.  As  so  frequently  happens  when  we 
are  not  very  particular  whether  the  fish  bite  or  not, 
they  elected  to  be  friendly.  The  stream  where  we 
visited  it  ran  through  meadow  and  pasture-land, 
with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  alders  along  its  banks. 
The  open  spaces  afforded  opportunities  for  my 
lady  to  try  her  hand  at  trout  fishing,  and  the  other 
member  of  the  party  could  wade  the  stream  and 
test  the  more  inaccessible  places.  The  water  was 
almost  ice-cold,  the  stream  having  its  rise  less  than 


IN  THE  ALGOMA  WOODS  205 

a  mile  away  in  a  great,  bubbling  spring.  Owing 
to  the  colour  of  the  water  the  stream  is  called  the 
"  Bluejay." 

When  noon  came,  a  fire  was  kindled  in  a  se- 
cluded spot  close  by  the  running  brook.  Coffee! 
You  never  tasted  any  like  it.  Fried  trout !  Why  are 
they  never  so  appetizing  as  when  cooked  and  eaten 
in  the  open?  We  lingered  long  over  that  dinner, 
and  the  writer  would  fain  linger  a  little  over  that 
day  even  now  when  it  is  only  a  memory.  He  has 
known  many  happy  days;  days  which  are  golden 
as  he  looks  back  upon  them  across  the  years;  but 
among  them  all  no  day  spent  in  the  out-of-doors, 
in  touch  with  fields  and  stream  and  sky,  stands 
out  more  clearly  and  alluringly  against  the  back- 
ground of  yesterday  than  that  passed  with  the 
dearest  woman  in  the  world  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Bluejay.  The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  as  we 
started  homeward,  and  from  the  summit  of  a  low 
hill  over  which  the  road  led,  we  looked  north  and 
eastward  over  miles  of  woodland  and  cultivated 
fields,  and  saw  in  the  distance  the  glistening  waters 
of  the  bay.  Yes,  there  is  the  lighthouse  at  Manito- 
waning,  and  the  children  are  watching  for  us.  In 
spite  of  the  alluring  beauty  of  the  scene,  something 
more  attractive  awaits  us  yonder.  We  must 
hasten. 

Before  leaving  home  it  had  been  decided  that 
all  but  one  member  of  the  family  should  spend  a 
portion  of  the  vacation  time  in  visiting  old  friends. 


206  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

Accordingly,  when  Sault  Ste.  Marie  was  reached, 
the  devotee  of  rod  and  reel  turned  his  face  towards 
the  north,  while  the  wife  and  children  took  steamer 
for  Chicago.  The  trip  into  the  woods  was  not 
undertaken  alone,  for  a  fisherman  friend  who  shall 
be  known  as  Jim,  one  of  the  best  of  comrades,  was 
waiting  at  the  Canadian  "  Soo  "  to  bear  us  com- 
pany on  the  visit  to  the  Algoma  woods.  What 
name,  if  any,  the  railroad  bears  which  runs  from 
the  "  Soo  "  sixty  miles  northeast,  we  do  not  know. 
The  company  does  not  depend  upon  passenger 
traffic  for  revenue,  for  that  would  mean  bank- 
ruptcy. The  road  is  used  for  hauling  out  logs,  with 
the  suggestion  now  and  then  made  that  some  day  it 
will  be  extended  to  Hudson's  Bay.  The  day  before 
we  were  to  go  up  the  line,  a  trestle  had  been  par- 
tially burned,  and  the  train  crept  fearfully  over 
the  half-repaired  structure.  We  were  probably 
some  five  or  six  hours  running  the  sixty  miles 
which  brought  us  to  Trout  Lake  and  the  shack 
where  we  were  to  stop. 

Through  the  kind  offices  of  the  Superintendent 
of  the  Algoma  Railroad  we  had  been  able  to  secure 
accommodations  with  a  forest  ranger,  who  had  a 
comfortable  cabin  and  was  an  excellent  cook.  It 
was  the  only  building  for  many  miles  around,  and 
Edwards,  the  ranger,  must  know  some  lonely 
hours,  especially  during  the  long  winters.  Lest 
others  may  share  the  delusion  of  a  friend  who 
said  that  he  wondered  we  did  not  starve  at  such 


IN  THE  ALGOMA  WOODS  207 

a  long  distance  from  market,  listen  to  the  bill  of 
fare :  plenty  of  good  bread  and  butter,  eggs,  bacon, 
toast,  trout,  with  blueberries  and  raspberries  ad 
libitum.  Less  than  eighty  rods  away  was  a  lumber 
camp  where  we  could  get  milk  and  cream,  and  in 
return  for  trout  the  cook  kept  us  supplied  with 
delicious  blueberry  pies.  The  man  who  is  on 
friendly  terms  with  the  cook  for  a  logging  camp 
need  never  suffer  from  hunger. 

The  first  night  after  our  arrival  we  were 
awakened  by  a  knocking  at  the  door.  Upon  being 
admitted  the  visitor  told  of  a  sick  child  which  had 
been  brought  up  from  the  city  in  hopes  that  the 
change  might  prove  beneficial.  The  mother  and 
child  were  living  in  a  tent  and  they  feared  the  little 
one  was  dying.  Had  we  any  medicine?  We  had, 
and  he  departed  with  it.  The  next  morning  the 
baby  was  reported  as  being  better,  and  the  follow- 
ing Sunday  when  we  were  invited  to  dinner  at  the 
logging  camp,  the  mother  and  child  were  at  table 
with  us.  When  we  saw  that  mother  feeding  baked 
beans,  boiled  ham,  pickles  and  pie,  to  a  child  that 
had  recently  been  at  the  point  of  death  with  cholera 
infantum,  we  had  an  unexpressed  conviction  that 
it  would  take  something  more  than  cholera-mixture 
to  save  the  child  this  time.  However,  so  far  as  we 
could  learn,  the  little  one  survived  in  spite  of  its 
mother's  folly.  Possibly  ham  and  pie  are  specifics 
in  this  disease. 

The  country  here  is  broken,  rocky  hills  of  con- 


208  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

siderable  size  almost  surrounding  the  lake.  Neigh- 
bouring lakes  are  to  be  found  in  nearly  every 
direction,  one  of  them  less  than  half  a  mile  away. 
From  these  lakes  trout  of  large  size  may  be  taken, 
but  not  with  the  fly;  at  least  at  the  time  of  year 
when  we  visited  them.  They  seemed  lazy  and 
somewhat  indifferent  even  to  the  minnows  offered 
them.  Now  and  then  one  would  deign  to  respond 
to  our  invitations,  but  it  was  never  with  any  en- 
thusiasm. It  will  always  remain  an  open  question 
whether  the  huge  trout  that  coquetted  with  Jim's 
hook,  one  day,  was  a  reality  or  a  phantom.  We 
were  on  a  lake  some  three  miles  from  camp  and 
had  taken  a  few  fish.  Fishing  in  some  fifteen  feet 
of  water,  Jim  had  a  strike  and  brought  a  big  fish 
so  near  to  the  surface  that  he  was  plainly  seen  by 
the  three  of  us,  and  then  the  exasperating  rascal 
quietly  sank  down  out  of  sight.  The  bait  was  im- 
mediately lowered  and  a  prompt  response  secured 
in  the  shape  of  another  strike.  Again  the  trout 
came  within  clear  view,  and  again,  without  any 
apparent  haste,  disappeared.  How  many  times  this 
was  repeated  deponent  saith  not;  but  the  repetition 
of  this  ungracious  performance  went  on  until  even 
Jim's  patience  was  exhausted  and  we  went  on  our 
way. 

It  was  on  this  lake,  near  the  outlet,  that  we 
came  upon  a  beaver-house,  recently  built.  We  did 
not  get  a  sight  of  the  shy  animals,  but  saw  many 
evidences  of  their  work  in  the  stumps  and  freshly 


IN  THE  ALGOMA  WOODS  209 

cut  pieces  of  wood.  A  well-beaten  path  led  from 
their  timber  reserve  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and 
they  evidently  floated  the  timber  to  their  building 
some  twenty  rods  away.  The  discovery  of  this 
colony  called  out  numerous  stories  from  the  forest 
ranger  of  his  experiences  with  the  beaver,  in  the 
recounting  of  which  he  referred  to  the  "  outlaw  " 
beaver  which  lives  alone  and  in  a  hole  in  the  bank 
of  some  stream  or  lake.  The  Indian  theory  is  that 
this  exile  has  been  driven  out  by  the  members  of 
his  family  on  account  of  his  bad  disposition  or  for 
some  crime  committed  against  the  society  of  which 
he  is  a  member.  We  must  confess  to  a  measure  of 
skepticism  as  to  the  absolute  trustworthiness  of  this 
bit  of  natural  history,  and  only  the  testimony  of 
a  well-known  naturalist  established  it  in  our  minds 
as  an  indubitable  fact. 

The  best  August  fishing  in  this  section  is  to  be 
found  either  in  the  streams  or  just  where  they 
empty  into  the  lakes.  Here  the  sprightly,  always- 
up-and-doing  brook  trout  furnish  real  sport.  In 
the  Chippeway  River,  outlet  of  Trout  Lake,  we 
made  good  catches,  and  where  a  spring  brook 
empties  into  the  lake,  sport  that  met  our  highest 
desires  was  found.  One  spot  on  the  river  made  an 
indelible  impression.  It  was  where  the  stream, 
rushing  against  a  wall  of  rock,  was  sharply  de- 
flected, forming  a  deep  and  shaded  pool.  The 
timber  grew  so  densely  all  about  that  it  was 
seemingly  impossible  to   fish  this  pool   from  the 


210  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

shore,  and  its  depth  made  wading  out  of  the 
question.  By  dint  of  much  climbing  and  fighting 
with  underbrush,  the  top  of  the  rock  was  reached, 
from  which  point  of  vantage  one  could  look  down 
upon  the  pool  and  the  big  trout  lying  near  the 
bottom.  While  the  rod  could  not  be  used  on 
account  of  the  brush,  it  was  possible  to  drop  a  line 
into  the  water  from  the  over-hanging  rock,  and 
however  unsportsmanlike  this  may  have  been,  it 
was  done  with  most  satisfactory  results.  Eight 
large  trout  were  pulled  up,  hand  over  hand,  from 
this  secluded  retreat. 

The  mouth  of  the  cold  brook  yielded  the  largest 
returns  of  any  one  spot  found  during  our  stay. 
Just  as  the  sun  was  going  down,  to  send  a  cast  of 
two  or  three  flies  dancing  over  this  water  was  to 
be  rewarded  by  doubles  frequently,  while  rarely 
did  the  flies  go  untouched.  Then  back  to  the 
cabin  and,  after  one  of  Edwards'  good  suppers  and 
a  chat  about  the  roaring  fire,  to  bed  and  to  the 
sleep  that  "  knits  up  the  ravelled  sleeve  of  care  " 
and  sends  one  forth  to  the  new  day  buoyant  and 
rejoicing. 


IN 

THE  VALLEY 

OF 

THE  DWYFOR 


s      j-1"- 


\ 


C  ^ 


XVI 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DWYFOR 


HEN  our  steamer,  the  "  Tunisian," 
docked  at  Liverpool  after  a  quick 
and  pleasant  voyage,  the  two 
brothers  of  my  good  friend  and 
travelling  companion,  Dr.  W., 
were  waiting  to  greet  him.  It 
was  something  like  half  a  century  since  my  friend 
had  left  his  home  among  the  Welsh  hills  to  devote 
his  fine  mind  and  loving  heart  to  the  ministry  of 
Jesus  Christ  in  America.  Were  this  the  place,  one 
might  write  many  a  chapter  concerning  the  faith- 
fulness and  fruitfulness  of  that  ministry  which  has 
brought  such  priceless  blessings  to  so  many  lives 
and  helped  so  largely  in  building  the  Kingdom  of 
God  in  the  new  world.  However,  it  is  of  his  early 
home  rather  than  of  the  man,  that  we  are  to  write 
just  now. 

It  was  because  the  writer  was  his  brother's  friend 
213 


214  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

that  one  of  these  strong-faced  Welshmen  extended 
a  cordial  invitation  to  be  his  guest  when,  later  on, 
Dr.  W.  should  visit  his  native  town.  So  it  came 
to  pass  that  after  the  great  meetings  in  London 
were  over,  we  started  for  the  little  village  of 
Garndolbenmaen  where  Dr.  W.  was  born  and  had 
spent  his  earlier  years. 

We  had  counted  not  a  little  on  making  the  ascent 
of  Snowdon,  and  in  spite  of  the  cloudy,  threaten- 
ing weather,  ascend  it  we  did.  Boarding  the  toy- 
like car  on  the  little  narrow-gauge  road,  we  were 
slowly  hauled  up  the  mountain  side.  We  had  hardly 
begun  the  ascent  when  the  country  about  began  to 
unroll  like  a  panorama  below  us.  Yonder  is  a 
thread-like  stream,  and  beyond  it  the  mines  with 
their  piles  of  slack  marking  each  opening.  Higher 
up,  the  clouds  were  all  about  us,  shutting  out  every- 
thing but  the  immediate  vicinity,  and  before  we 
reached  the  summit,  rain  had  begun  to  fall.  The 
only  relief  to  our  disappointment  was  when,  for 
a  moment,  the  clouds  broke  and  we  looked  far  over 
mountains  and  valleys.  Down  at  our  feet  and 
leading  away  towards  the  east  was  a  white  road  on 
either  side  of  which  were  little  squares  of  cultivated 
fields.  Towards  the  south  loomed  the  tops  of  high 
hills,  the  sides  of  which  were  hidden  by  the  clouds, 
while  towards  the  west  we  caught  just  a  glimpse 
of  the  Straits  of  Menna. 

A  little  later  we  were  riding  along  the  shores  of 
the  Straits  and  looking  across  to  Anglesea.     To 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DWYFOR    215 

those  familiar  with  religious  work  in  Great  Britain, 
one  figure  stands  out,  giant-like,  whenever  the 
name  of  that  island  is  heard.  Here  Christmas 
Evans  prayed  and  preached,  turning  many  hun- 
dreds from  sin  to  righteousness  under  the  sway 
of  his  matchless  eloquence.  Farther  on  we  passed 
Carnarvon  Castle  where,  according  to  a  tradition 
now  generally  discredited,  Edward  II,  first  Prince 
of  Wales,  was  born. 

Night  had  fallen  when  we  reached  the  Garn 
station,  a  mile  or  more  from  the  village  which 
straggles  up  the  side  of  one  of  the  foot-hills  of  the 
Snowdon  range.  A  cheerful  fire  was  blazing  in 
the  open  fire-place  when  we  entered  the  house,  and 
it  seemed  a  symbol  of  the  warm  and  generous 
hospitality  extended  to  the  American  stranger. 
There  is  something  indescribably  attractive  about 
one  of  these  Welsh  homes.  Perhaps  "  hominess  " 
describes  it  best.  The  absence  of  ceremony  and  the 
presence  of  a  spirit  of  kindliness  and  cordiality  put 
the  stranger  at  his  ease  from  the  first.  The  days 
spent  under  that  roof  passed  all  too  swiftly,  and, 
as  we  look  back  upon  them,  they  set  the  heart  to 
glowing.  Since  then  the  master  of  the  house  has 
passed  into  the  great  silence,  but  no  change  that 
time  works  can  efface  the  memory  of  his  gracious 
and  considerate  hospitality. 

Sunday  in  North  Wales  is  a  day  for  rest  and 
worship,  not  for  golf  and  picnics.  It  was  on  a 
Saturday  evening  that  we  reached  Garn,  and  it 


216  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

seemed  like  a  "  deserted  village  "  when  we  looked 
up  and  down  the  street  the  next  morning.  Any 
such  assumption  was  thoroughly  dissipated  later  on 
when  the  hour  for  morning  service  came.  Then 
people  gathered  from  every  direction  for  miles 
around,  and  when  we  entered  the  plain,  Non-Con- 
formist Church-house  it  was  filled  to  the  doors, 
galleries  and  all.  The  visitor  could  not  understand 
songs  or  prayers  or  sermon,  for  all  were  in  the 
Welsh  tongue.  When  the  sermon  began  my 
thoughtful  friend,  who  sat  beside  me,  jotted  down 
the  salient  points  of  the  discourse  as  the  preacher 
proceeded,  so  that  the  handicapped  American 
gained  a  very  fair  idea  of  the  outline.  It  was  not 
the  sermon,  however,  but  the  singing  that  made  the 
strongest  impression.  Needless  to  say,  not  a  word 
could  be  understood,  but  somehow  it  reached  the 
heart.  The  dominance  of  the  minor  would  have 
been  somewhat  depressing  had  it  not  been  for  the 
occasional  evident  exultation  and  rejoicing  which 
swept  forth  to  fill  the  church. 

It  was  at  the  evening  service  that  the  most  pro- 
found impression  was  made  upon  the  writer.  The 
second  service  of  the  day  closes  before  it  becomes 
necessary  to  light  the  lamps.  The  sun  was  low  in 
the  west,  when,  after  the  sermon,  a  man  came  down 
from  the  gallery  and  stood  up  before  the  pulpit  to 
sing.  That  song,  in  an  unfamiliar  tongue,  melted 
the  "heart  and  filled  the  eyes  with  tears.  The  rays 
of  the  setting  sun  fell  through  the  western  windows 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DWYFOR    217 

upon  the  singer,  and  we  thought  of  one  in  a  far- 
off  land  and  time  whose  face  did  shine  when  he 
returned  to  his  people  from  talking  with  God. 
Later  on  our  host  told  us  that  this  man  had  been 
a  popular  concert  singer  whose  heart  God  had 
touched  during  the  great  revival  which  had  then 
just  swept  over  Wales.  The  song  to  which  we 
had  listened  told  of  the  joy  of  the  wanderer  when 
he  had  come  back  from  the  "  far  country  "  to  his 
Father's  house. 

English  is  rarely  heard  on  the  streets  of  Garn, 
and  not  a  few  of  the  people  of  this  section  are 
unable  to  speak  anything  but  the  Welsh.  On  one 
of  our  days  of  wandering  about  the  country  we 
met  a  woman  in  the  highway  with  whom  Dr.  W. 
talked  in  her  native  tongue.  He  then  told  his 
friend  that  we  would  stop  at  the  home  of  this 
woman  a  little  farther  on,  and  excused  himself  for 
a  moment  while  he  visited  a  neighbouring  farm- 
house. Left  together,  the  Welsh  woman  and  the 
American  were  somewhat  at  a  loss  as  to  how  con- 
versation might  be  carried  on.  It  was  the  woman, 
of  course,  who  solved  the  difficulty.  She  knew 
one  English  word,  and  looking  the  visitor  in  the 
eye,  she  smiled  and  said,  "  America !  America !  " 
The  stranger  could  not  even  say  "  Yes,"  in  Welsh, 
but  he  said  it  in  his  best  Yankee  and  his  answering 
smile  was  in  the  universal  language.  Dr.  W.  said 
afterwards  that  this  woman's  sons  were  in  the 
United  States,  and  we  found   few  homes   from 


218  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

which  at  least  one  had  not  gone  forth  to  the  new 
world.  It  was  for  the  sake  of  her  boys,  in  part, 
at  least,  that  this  woman  overwhelmed  us  with 
attentions  when  we  sat  in  her  home  a  little  later 
on.  Such  milk  we  never  expect  to  taste  again. 
When  Dr.  W.  said  that  she  had  served  us  with  the 
"  strippings,"  he  was  compelled  to  explain  that  the 
Welsh  dairymen  keep  separate  the  last  of  the  milk 
taken  from  the  cow — the  "  strippings  " — as  this 
is  much  richer  than  that  given  earlier  in  the  milk- 
ing.    Henceforth,  give  us  "  strippings." 

As  one  comes  to  know  something  of  the  con- 
ditions obtaining  in  Wales,  the  only  wonder  is  that 
they  do  not  all  emigrate.  The  land  is  generally 
owned  by  non-residents,  and  the  rentals  are  high. 
If  the  tenant  rescues  a  field  from  the  rocks  and 
brush,  thereby  increasing  productivity,  the  rental 
is  at  once  increased.  Every  one  must  pay  towards 
the  support  of  the  Established  Church.  On  the 
Sunday  which  we  spent  in  Garn,  the  two  Non- 
Conformist  churches  of  the  village  were  crowded, 
while  only  fifteen  people  were  present  at  the  ser- 
vices held  by  the  Church  of  England;  yet  every 
man  of  these  Calvinistic  Methodists  and  Baptists 
was  taxed  for  the  support  of  the  establishment. 
No  more  gross  injustice  in  the  name  of  religion 
was  ever  perpetrated  than  that  from  which  the 
Non-Conformists  of  Wales  suffer. 

The  valley  of  the  Dwyfor  is  an  idyll  of  peaceful 
beauty.     One  afternoon  we  climbed  the  steep  hill- 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DWYFOR    219 

side  back  of  the  village,  and  stood  upon  a  giant 
rock  jutting  out  from  among  its  lesser  fellows, 
where,  when  a  mere  lad,  Dr.  W.  practised  preach- 
ing to  an  audience  made  up  of  rocks  and  stones  and 
grazing  sheep.  The  spot  was  of  interest  not  only 
because  of  the  associations  but  for  the  extended 
view  that  it  afforded.  We  faced  the  village  and 
the  valley,  and  saw  the  glistening  waters  of  the  sea 
in  the  distance.  Here  and  there  a  patch  of  woods 
could  be  seen,  but  for  the  most  part  one  beheld  only 
carefully  cultivated  and  fruitful  fields.  The 
Dwyfor  is  not  a  great  river  save  in  its  quiet  beauty. 

Are  you  built  so  that  every  stream  of  water,  even 
the  output  of  the  melting  snow  in  the  springtime, 
seems  to  say  "Fish!"?  Whether  fortunately  or 
unfortunately,  the  writer  has  never  been  able  to 
keep  his  imagination  from  capering  about  when  in 
the  presence  of  lake  or  river.  The  shining  Dwyfor 
had  an  irresistible  appeal,  and  our  host  was  sub- 
jected to  cross-examination. 

"  Are  there  any  fish  in  the  Dwyfor?  " 

"Yes." 

"What  kind?" 

"  Trout." 

"  Would  I  be  permitted  to  fish  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  by  taking  out  a  license." 

"  Have  you  any  tackle  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  and  you  are  more  than  welcome  to 
use  it." 

The  rod  was  heavier  and  stiffer  than  the  Amer- 


220  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

ican  was  accustomed  to  use,  and  the  flies  were 
absolute  strangers;  but,  nothing  daunted,  the  fish- 
erman paid  for  his  license  and  betook  himself  to  the 
river.  It  is  probable  that  Dr.  W.  would  have  little 
choice  between  going  fishing  and  serving  a  term  in 
jail;  but  the  unselfish  man  trudged  patiently  along 
with  his  friend.  If  ever  a  stream  was  clearer  or  its 
banks  more  absolutely  lacking  in  everything  that 
would  screen  the  fisherman,  it  is  unknown  to  the 
writer.  The  sky  was  almost  cloudless,  no  wind 
rippled  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  we  have  a 
suspicion  that  every  trout  in  the  Dwyfor  saw  us 
when  we  started  from  Garn.  At  all  events,  they 
had  hied  them  to  safe  retreats  from  which  they 
looked  contemptuously  upon  the  fisherman  and  his 
futile  efforts  to  fool  them.  One  deluded  fish, 
nearly  as  long  as  one's  finger,  did  lose  his  mental 
poise  for  a  moment,  just  long  enough  to  grab  the 
fly.  The  verdict  of  temporary  lunacy  was  promptly 
rendered  by  both  Dr.  W.  and  the  fisherman,  and 
the  trout  was  returned  to  the  water.  Fishing  in 
the  Dwyfor  was  a  flat  failure,  so  far  as  returns 
in  fish  go. 

But  the  fish  were  not  the  only  returns  of  the 
day.  When  it  was  evident  even  to  the  most  opti- 
mistic that  fishing  was  wasted  effort,  Dr.  W.  sug- 
gested that  we  were  not  far  from  a  "  cromlech," 
and  off  we  started.  A  mile  or  so  along  the  road, 
and  then  across  the  fields,  and  we  came  to  one  of 
the  many  Druidical  remains  to  be  found  in  Great 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DWYFOR    221 

Britain.  The  circle  was  small,  not  more  than  ten 
feet  in  diameter,  all  the  stones  standing  and  having 
a  large,  flat  stone  covering  the  top.  Who  were  the 
builders?  Why  was  it  built?  No  voice  comes 
from  the  weather-beaten  stones,  and  wise  men  give 
differing  answers. 

The  sun  is  almost  touching  the  summit  of  the 
western  hills  when  we  reach  Garn.  We  have 
tramped  many  miles,  made  a  colossal  failure  of 
fishing,  but  there  has  been  delightful  comradeship, 
the  blue  sky,  fair  fields,  hours  in  God's  open,  and 
we  are  happy. 


BOY  LIFE 

IN 

THE  OPEN 


v/  TiW  '* 


XVII 
BOY  LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN 


HERE'S  a  clam!" 

"  Where  ?  I  don't  see  it !  Can't 
I  get  it?" 

Of  course  he  could  get  it,  for 
the  water  in  the  creek  was  shal- 
low and  the  father  remembered 
his  own  boyhood  too  well  to  deny  the  little  chap's 
request.  So  the  boat  was  stopped  while  the  boy, 
arm  bared  to  the  shoulder,  reached  down  to  the 
sandy  bottom  of  the  stream  and  captured  his  first 
clam. 

You  don't  see  anything  interesting  in  that?  So 
much  the  worse  for  you.  It  interested  the  boy,  and 
the  boy's  interest  was  quite  enough  to  enlist  and 
hold  the  interest  of  the  father.  If  you  do  not  yet 
know  that  whatever  appeals  to  the  mind  of  a  child 
is  important,  however  insignificant  that  thing  may 
be  in  itself,  you  have  something  to  learn. 
225 


226  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

The  two,  father  and  boy,  had  left  the  log  cabin 
among  the  pines  soon  after  breakfast  in  search  of 
minnows  for  use  in  fishing.  When  they  started  out 
the  boy  went  along  simply  because  the  two  were 
chums  and  almost  inseparable  companions.  The 
father  had  no  thought  of  what  that  stream  might 
mean  to  the  lad,  and  he  learned  a  lesson  that  morn- 
ing which  he  will  never  forget.  He  had  spent  his 
boyhood  in  the  country  and  had  never  stopped  to 
think  that  the  sights  and  sounds  along  this  stream 
would  all  be  unfamiliar  to  his  city-bred  son. 

They  had  not  gone  far  up  the  stream  before  an- 
other discovery  was  made,  and  two  baby  snails 
joined  the  clam  on  the  seat.  Then  a  crawfish  was 
seen  scuttling  over  the  gravel  and  was  added  to  the 
collection.  By  this  time  the  boy  was  bubbling  over 
with  interest  and  enthusiasm,  but  when,  rounding 
a  bend  in  the  stream,  a  turtle  was  discovered  sun- 
ning himself  on  a  bit  of  drift-wood,  it  was  evident 
that  the  wonders  of  this  wonderful  stream  had 
reached  their  climax.  Cautiously  the  boat  was 
moved  toward  the  turtle's  resting-place,  but  just  be- 
fore he  was  reached  he  quietly  slid  off  into  the 
water.  It  would  not  do  to  leave  the  lad  in  such  an 
ocean  of  disappointment  as  swallowed  him  up  when 
that  turtle  disappeared,  so,  with  landing  net  in 
hand,  they  watched  for  his  reappearance.  It  seemed 
hours  to  the  boy  before  the  beady  eyes  of  the  turtle 
were  seen  looking  up  at  them  from  the  moss  where 
he  had  found  a  hiding-place.    Then  a  careful  man- 


BOY  LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  227 

ipulation  of  the  net,  a  sudden  scoop,  and  the  turtle 
was  scrambling  about  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"  See  him  snap !  Will  he  bite  me  ?  Look  at  the 
markings  of  his  shell !  How  old  do  you  suppose 
he  is?  What  do  turtles  eat?  I'm  going  to  take 
him  home !  " 

Questions  and  exclamations  crowded  and  jostled 
each  other  as  the  eager  lad  studied  his  latest  prize. 

When  the  captives  had  been  carried  to  the  cabin 
and  duly  admired  by  other  members  of  the  family, 
the  question  arose  as  to  what  should  be  done  with 
them.  Throw  them  back?  Eager  protests  from 
their  owner.  When  he  was  finally  convinced  that 
they  were  not  altogether  adapted  to  serve  as  pocket 
pieces,  he  proposed  an  aquarium,  and  aquarium  it 
was.  An  ancient  and  discarded  dish-pan  was 
found,  the  holes  filled  with  rags,  water  and  rocks 
supplied,  and  clams,  crawfish,  snails  and  turtles 
were  compelled  to  live  in  seeming  amity,  whatever 
their  personal  feelings  may  have  been.  Later  on 
other  turtles  were  added  to  the  collection,  and  a 
yellow  lizard  with  a  blue  tail  gave  the  finishing 
touch  to  this  conglomerate  of  animal  life. 

How  shall  we  educate  the  young?  This  ques- 
tion, holding  first  place  in  the  hearts  of  parents  and 
lovers  of  children,  elicits  clamorous  and  often  con- 
tradictory answers.  The  advocate  of  "  cultural  " 
studies  finds  a  sturdy  antagonist  in  the  defender 
of  "  vocational  "  training,  and  school  boards  make 
frantic  efforts  to  please  everybody,  and  succeed,  as 


228  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

is  common  in  such  cases,  in  pleasing  nobody. 
Meanwhile,  our  children  are  the  helpless  and  un- 
fortunate victims  of  a  series  of  experiments,  as  the 
school  authorities  try  out  different  educational 
theories. 

Far  be  it  from  the  writer  to  propose  a  solution 
of  the  difficulty  or  to  proffer  any  panacea  for  our 
educational  ills;  but  in  all  humility  he  ventures  to 
suggest  the  desirability  of  making  it  possible  for 
the  child  to  know  something  about  the  world  in 
which  he  lives.  Book-learning,  essential  as  it  is, 
is  not  enough  if  we  would  fit  the  child  to  live  the 
larger  and  more  joyous  life.  When  we  have 
studied  literature  and  art  and  philosophy  and 
science,  when  we  have  become  familiar  with  the 
great  cities  with  their  bewildering  sights  and  dis- 
tracting sounds,  the  finest  things  remain  to  be  dis- 
covered, and  these  discoveries  must  be  made  as  we 
stand  open-eyed  in  the  presence  of  God's  work- 
manship. 

Hills  and  streams,  woods  and  flowers,  bees  and 
birds  and  butterflies,  the  flora  and  fauna  of  this 
earth  where  we  have  our  home  for  a  little  time, 
should,  somehow,  be  brought  into  the  life  of  the 
child.  The  boy  who  grows  up  into  manhood  with- 
out being  privileged  to  know  the  world  of  nature 
by  personal  contact  has  been  robbed.  He  may  be 
intelligent  in  many  things  and  a  useful  member  of 
society,  but  he  has  missed  out  of  life  some  of  its 
deepest  satisfactions  and  purest  joys.    Indeed,  such 


HAVE    YOU    FORGOTTEN    YOUR    BOYHOOD? 


BOY  LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  229 

an  one  is  not  symmetrically  educated,  and  is  quite 
likely  to  be  put  to  shame  as  the  years  pass.  A 
story  is  told  of  a  young  woman,  able  to  order  her 
breakfast  in  six  different  languages,  who,  spend- 
ing some  days  in  the  home  of  a  farmer,  made  most 
mortifying  mistakes  concerning  the  common  things 
of  country  life.  When,  coming  down  to  breakfast 
one  morning  she  discovered  a  plate  of  honey  on  the 
table,  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  a  display 
of  her  knowledge  and  for  the  discomfiture  of  those 
who  had  laughed  at  her  mistakes,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Ah !     I  see  that  you  keep  a  bee." 

Take  the  witness  box!  Yes,  I  am  speaking 
to  you,  middle-aged  man,  city-dweller,  slave  to  bus- 
iness, familiar  with  paved  streets  and  great  build- 
ings, the  honk  of  automobile  horns  and  the  love 
songs  of  vagrant  cats. 

"  Were  you  born  in  the  country?  " 

".Yes." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  your  boyhood  ?  " 

"  Forgotten  it !  Sometimes  I  can  think  of  noth- 
ing else,  and  always  something  out  of  that  boyhood 
is  popping  up  even  in  the  midst  of  my  business 
undertakings." 

"  Do  you  regret  that  you  were  not  born  in  the 
city?" 

"Regret  it?  Say,  you  are  fooling.  I  wouldn't 
trade  the  recollections  of  my  boyhood  on  the  farm 
for  the  best  business  block  in  this  city." 

"  But  it  can't  be  worth  anything  to  you  in  a  busi- 


230  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

ness  way.  Life  in  the  country  doesn't  train  one 
to  manufacture  gas  engines." 

"  Well,  I've  never  stopped  to  consider  what  I 
owe  in  the  matter  of  business  success  to  my  boy- 
hood in  the  country,  but  now  that  you  raise  the 
question,  I'm  inclined  to  believe  that  it  gave  me 
pretty  good  training  in  some  ways  for  the  business 
in  which  I  am  engaged. 

"  When  I  came  into  this  business  at  the  age  of 
twenty  I  was  given  a  place  in  the  shipping  depart- 
ment at  a  salary  of  seven  dollars  per  week.  Now 
I  am  at  the  head  of  the  firm,  while  many  of  the 
fellows  who  were  with  me  in  those  days  are  still 
working  on  salary.  You  see  I  had  the  advantage 
of  the  city  boys  in  being  accustomed  to  work.  On 
the  farm  I  had  my  regular  tasks.  Why,  when  I 
was  a  little  chap  I  wiped  the  dishes  for  mother, 
and  when  I  grew  older  I  had  to  keep  the  wood-box 
filled  and  go  after  the  cows  and  pick  up  potatoes 
and — but  you  know  what  a  lot  of  things  there  are 
to  do  on  a  farm  where 'a  boy  can  help. 

"  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  imagine  that  I  was 
learning  application,  industry  and  self-control — 
big  assets  in  business.  The  city-bred  boy  has  never 
had  that  schooling.  He  has  not  been  trained  to 
hold  himself  to  hard  and  continued  effort.  It  is 
not  his  fault,  and  I  do  not  know  that  his  parents 
are  to  be  blamed.  I  have  two  boys  of  my  own  born 
in  the  city,  and  one  of  the  questions  which  per- 
plexes me  most  is  how  to  provide  them  with  regular 


BOY  LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  231 

tasks  that  shall  develop  their  sense  of  responsibility 
and  cultivate  habits  of  industry  and  application. 
Although  I  could  afford  to  have  a  man  to  take  care 
of  the  lawn  and  attend  to  the  furnace,  I  have  the 
boys  do  this  work  for  their  own  sakes.  It  is  good 
as  far  as  it  goes,  but  I  am  afraid  it  does  not  go  far 
enough.  They  have  too  much  time  to  spend  in  do- 
ing nothing,  and  habits  of  idleness  formed  in  boy- 
hood are  likely  to  stick  when  one  comes  to  man- 
hood. I  do  not  believe  in  manufacturing  tasks  or 
setting  them  at  work  which  is  not  real,  for  boys  are 
keen  observers  and  you  cannot  fool  them  into  be- 
lieving that  they  are  doing  something  worth  while 
when  compelled  to  take  wood  from  one  corner  of 
the  cellar  and  pile  it  in  another  corner,  and  then 
shift  it  back  again.  The  man  who  devises  some 
way  of  supplying  real  tasks  for  the  boys  of  the 
well-to-do  city  families  will  be  a  public  benefactor. 
"  Now,  that  you  have  started  the  discussion  of 
this  subject,  how  about  the  physical  health  and 
strength  that  I  brought  from  my  country  life  to 
the  work  which  I  am  doing?  Of  course,  we  have 
our  sleeping  porches  and  playgrounds  and  medical 
inspection  in  the  public  schools,  and  are  doing  what 
we  can  to  build  sound  bodies  for  our  city  children, 
but  I  suspect  that  the  out-door  life  of  the  country 
boy  and  his  regular  exercise  and  plain  food  furnish 
a  far  and  away  better  physical  preparation  for  the 
strenuous  work  of  business  life  than  anything  we 
are  able  to  devise  for  our  children  in  the  city. 


232  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

"  You  never  saw  my  old  home,  did  you  ?  Well, 
the  house  stood  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  and  close  by  a 
little  stream.  In  the  summer  time  the  wild  straw- 
berries in  the  meadow  above  the  orchard  were  so 
thick  that  I  remember  picking  a  bushel  there 
one  day.  For  raspberries  and  blackberries  we 
usually  went  some  three  or  four  miles  to  Babcock 
Hollow,  but  once  there  you  could  fill  a  ten-quart 
pail  in  no  time  at  all,  and  they  were  the  sweetest, 
most  luscious  berries  you  ever  tasted.  Then,  in  the 
fall,  came  apple  picking  and  potato  digging  and 
corn  cutting  and  nut  gathering.  There  were  dozens 
of  butternut  trees  in  the  pasture-lot  through  which 
the  creek  ran,  and  on  Button  Hill  you  could  get  all 
the  chestnuts  you  wished.  Did  you  ever  gather 
beechnuts  ?  They  are  so  little  that  picking  them  up 
by  hand  is  slow  work.  We  used  to  take  three  or 
four  sheets,  spread  them  under  a  beech  tree,  after 
the  first  frost  had  opened  the  burrs,  and  then  one 
of  the  boys  would  climb  the  tree  and  pound  the 
limbs,  sending  the  nuts  down  upon  the  sheets  in 
showers. 

"But  the  winters!  When  there  was  a  good 
crust  on  the  snow  you  could  start  on  your  sled  at 
the  patch  of  woods  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  nearly  a 
mile  away,  and  ride  right  into  our  barnyard.  I've 
done  it  many  a  time.  Skating!  We  could  go  al- 
most straight  away  for  miles  on  the  river.  One 
night  when  Jim  Gilbert's  people  were  away  from 
home  I  got  permission  to  stay  all  night  with  him. 


BOY  LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  233 

I  took  my  skates  along  and  after  supper  we  came 
down  to  the  river  and  skated.  The  moon  was  full 
and  it  was  almost  as  light  as  day.  I  must  have  been 
careless,  for  I  skated  too  near  an  open  place  and 
broke  through.  Jim  was  just  behind  me,  and,  be- 
fore he  could  stop  or  change  his  course,  he  had 
stubbed  his  toe  on  me  and  in  he  went,  head  first. 
The  water  was  shallow,  so  there  was  no  danger, 
but  we  had  a  mile  to  walk  in  our  wet  clothes,  and 
all  the  way  up  hill.  I  remember  that  our  clothes 
were  frozen  stiff  when  we  reached  Jim's  house. 
We  built  a  roaring  fire,  stripped  off  our  wet 
clothes  and  put  on  some  that  were  dry,  and  then 
sat  up  until  one  o'clock  eating  chestnuts  and  pop- 
corn and  talking  about  what  we  would  do  when 
we  were  men.  Jim  had  an  idea  that  he  would  be 
a  lawyer,  but  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  sell- 
ing tooth  paste  at  the  county  fair. 

"  In  some  ways  spring  in  the  country  is  not  re- 
markably attractive.  The  fields  are  brown  and 
bare  and  soggy,  and  the  winds  cannot  fairly  be 
called  zephyrs.  As  the  frost  leaves  the  ground  the 
roads  become  rivers  of  mud,  and  some  of  the  "  sink- 
holes "  seem  bottomless.  Early  spring  is  easily 
the  most  unlovely  time  of  the  year  in  the  country, 
but  even  then  life  has  its  brighter  side.  With  the 
first  breath  of  the  south  wind  the  sap  begins  to 
leave  the  roots  of  the  hard  maples  and  the  sugar 
season  begins. 


234.  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

"  Did  you  ever  work  in  a  sugar-bush  ?  No  ? 
Poor  fellow!  You've  missed  something  worth 
while  out  of  your  life.  I  understand  that  nowa- 
days they  evaporate  the  sap  in  shallow  pans;  we 
used  to  boil  it  in  a  big  iron  kettle.  We  did  not  have 
many  maples  on  our  place,  so  I  sometimes  worked 
for  Deacon  Bouton,  who  had  the  next  farm  west  of 
ours.  He  had  a  big  sugar-bush,  and  we  carried  the 
pails  of  sap  on  neck-yokes.  When  we  had  a  big 
run  of  sap  we  had  to  boil  all  night  as  well  as  during 
the  day.  I'll  never  forget  one  night  when  we  had 
a  feast.  There  were  two  boys  besides  myself :  Ed 
Bouton,  the  deacon's  son,  and  John  Hammond.  Ed 
had  brought  forty-five  hen's  eggs  and  John  added 
five  goose  eggs.  We  boiled  the  eggs  in  the  sap,  and 
the  three  of  us  ate  those  forty-five  hen's  eggs  and 
started  on  the  goose  eggs.  For  some  reason  we  did 
not  relish  them.  Possibly  the  hen's  eggs  had  taken 
the  keen  edge  from  our  appetites. 

"  But  how  I'm  running  on !  Regret  being  born  in 
the  country?  Do  you  know  that  I  can  shut  my 
eyes  and  see  the  hills  and  meadows  and  orchard, 
fairer  than  any  ever  put  in  colours  on  the  canvas? 
I  can  see  the  oriole's  nest  swinging  from  a  branch 
of  the  big  elm  in  the  corner  of  our  yard  and  the 
nest  of  the  pewee  under  the  bridge.  Just  across 
the  road  in  the  meadow  are  glorious  masses  of 
violets,  and  mother's  peonies  and  sweet  pinks  beat 
anything  I've  ever  seen  since.  When  I'm  dog- 
tired  from  the  day's  work  it  rests  me  just  to  think 


BOY  LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  235 

of  the  quiet  and  calm  and  beauty  of  the  old  home 
among  the  hills. 

"  And  there's  another  thing  that  I  want  to  tell 
you:  when  I  go  into  the  country  I  can  enjoy  it. 
One  of  my  best  friends,  born  in  the  city,  is  bored 
almost  to  death  every  time  he  tries  to  take  a  vaca- 
tion in  the  country.  He  doesn't  know  the  differ- 
ence between  a  hard  maple  and  a  tamarack,  and 
asked  me  once  if  a  woodchuck  was  likely  to  attack 
a  human  being  if  not  angered.  He's  afraid  of  bees 
and  garter  snakes,  and  even  a  friendly  old  "  daddy- 
long-legs  "  gives  him  a  nervous  shock.  He  can't 
enjoy  the  fields  and  flowers,  for  he  was  brought 
up  on  people  and  bricks.  I'd  like  to  be  back  there 
at  the  old  place  this  minute.  I'll  bet  I  could  find 
some  raspberries  on  the  bushes  that  grow  in  the 
fence  corners  along  the  west  road.  We  used  to 
string  them  on  timothy  stalks  as  we  came  home 
from  school,  and  I've  never  tasted  any  such  berries 
since." 

The  witness  is  through  with  his  testimony  and 
we'll  submit  the  case  to  the  jury  without  argument. 
What  do  you  say,  fathers  and  mothers  of  the  city? 
Shall  your  children  have  a  chance  to  learn  nature's 
secrets  at  first  hand?  Will  you  give  them  some 
time  in  the  open  every  year,  where  the  work  of  man 
has  not  elbowed  the  work  of  God  into  a  corner  and 
out  of  sight?  More,  will  you  help  to  send  the 
children  of  the  poor,  children  whose  playground  is 
the  city  street,  and  to  whom  the  stories  of  green 


236  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

fields  and  limpid  streams  and  flowers  that  belong 
to  any  who  will  gather  them,  sound  like  fairy 
tales — will  you  give  to  these  children  of  the  tene- 
ment and  the  slums  days  where  the  sunshine  is  not 
filtered  through  a  bank  of  smoke  and  all  the  min- 
istry of  God's  unspoiled  work  strengthens  them 
for  the  coming  days  of  toil? 


THE  BULLY 
OF  THE 
UPPER 
OSWEGATCHIE 


But  should  you  lure  from  his 
dark  haunt,  beneath  the 
tangled  roots 

Of  pendent  trees,  the  monarch  of 
the  brook, 

Behooves  you   then   to   ply  your 
finest  art. 


At  last,  while  haply  o'er  the  shaded  sun 
Passes  a  cloud,  he  desperate  takes  the  death, 
With    sullen    plunge.    At    once    he    darts 

along, 
Deep-struck,  and  runs  out  all  the  length- 
ened line; 
And  flies  aloft,  and  flounces  round  the  pool, 
Indignant    of    the    guile.     With    yielding 

hand, 
That   feels   him   still,  yet    to    his  furious 

course 
Gives   way,   you,   now   retiring,   following 

now 
Across  the  stream,  exhaust  his  idle  rage; 
Till,  floating  broad  upon  his  breathless  side, 
And  to  his  fate  abandoned,  to  the  shore 
You  gayly  drag  your  unresisting  prize. 
— James  Thomson,  The  Seasons. 


XVIII 


THE  BULLY  OF  THE  UPPER 
OSWEGATCHIE 

F  the  sucker  had  gone  twenty 
feet  farther  up  the  little  brook  on 
his  foraging  expedition  this  story 
would  not  have  been  written. 
However,  by  the  time  he  had  ap- 
propriated some  ten  thousand 
trout  eggs,  the  hunger  which  had  urged  him  into 
the  mouth  of  the  brook  deserted  him,  and,  as  the 
water  was  too  cold  for  his  liking,  he  made  his  way 
back  to  the  river  where  he  could  take  a  siesta  in  the 
pool  that  he  had  left  that  morning. 

Just  above  the  spot  where  the  sucker  turned 
about  was  a  bend  in  the  stream,  and,  passing  that, 
you  came  upon  a  reach  of  shallow  water  running 
over  the  most  beautiful  bed  of  gravel  in  that  whole 
section.  It  was  here  that  the  Bully  was  born,  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  very  day  when  destruction  in  the 

239 


240  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

form  of  a  predatory  sucker  came  so  near  to  him. 
Not  that  he  appeared  much  like  a  bully  in  those  first 
hours  of  conscious  existence.  In  fact  he  looked 
more  like  an  animated  sliver  with  a  sack  suspended 
from  underneath.  He  moved  slowly  about  the 
stream  in  company  with  a  hundred  or  so  other  little 
fellows  until  the  sack  had  disappeared,  and  then  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  he  had  the  advantage  of  all 
his  comrades  in  the  matter  of  size  at  least. 

When  they  began  feeding  upon  the  tiny  forms 
of  life  found  in  the  creek,  the  Bully  soon  gained  a 
reputation  for  pugnaciousness.  He  did  not  hesitate 
to  crowd  his  best  friend  away  from  a  larva,  and, 
before  he  was  an  inch  long,  he  had  bitten  the  left 
pectoral  fin  from  one  of  his  comrades  who  had  ven- 
tured to  resist  the  Bully's  attempt  to  rob  him  of  a 
luscious  little  snail  that  he  had  discovered.  One 
day  when  the  Bully  was  yet  a  fingerling  he  joined 
battle  with  a  chub  twice  his  size,  and,  although  he 
lost  a  part  of  his  tail  in  the  fray,  and  all  the  specta- 
tors thought  he  was  whipped  before  the  conflict  had 
fairly  begun,  the  thought  of  giving  up  never  oc- 
curred to  him,  and  he  fought  until  his  foe  turned 
tail  and  fled  into  the  river,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away. 

He  was  still  living  in  the  brook  and  had  come 
to  be  almost  four  inches  in  length  when  he  had 
an  experience  that  shook  his  nerves  somewhat. 
As  he  was  resting  beside  a  sod  a  little  worm,  all 
bent  out  of  shape,  but  undeniably  of   the   vermes 


THE  BULLY  OF  THE  OSWEGATCHIE     241 

family,  came  floating  down  the  stream  and  he 
promptly  grabbed  it.  Then  came  a  sharp  prick  in 
his  lip  and  something  was  pulling  him  out  from 
under  the  sod.  He  braced  and  twisted  and  threshed 
about,  but  all  in  vain.  Up  he  went  out  of  the  water, 
all  the  time  doing  fancy  somersaults  such  as  he 
had  never  attempted  before.  A  moment  later  he 
struck  the  water  with  a  splash  and  was  soon  safely 
hidden  under  the  sod  again.  From  his  hiding- 
place  he  watched  that  worm  come  floating  past  him 
again  and  yet  again,  but  he  had  learned  caution. 
Now  that  he  looked  closely,  he  saw  that  the  worm 
was  fastened  to  the  end  of  a  string,  and  a  little 
later  he  discovered  that  this  string  was  tied  to  a 
stick  which  was  in  the  possession  of  some  creature 
that  walked  along  the  bank  of  the  stream.  Later 
on  he  learned  that  this  strange  animal  was  a  small 
boy  and  that  all  members  of  this  species  were  his 
enemies.  Whether  or  not  he  ever  relized  that  he 
owed  his  life  to  the  fact  that  the  boy  had  lost  the 
last  of  his  store  hooks  and  was  using  a  bent  pin  that 
day,  no  one  knows. 

All  that  summer  the  Bully  lived  in  the  brook ;  but 
when  the  days  grew  shorter  and  it  began  to  freeze 
he  moved  with  his  friends  into  the  river.  That 
winter,  when  the  river  was  frozen  over  except  in 
shallow  places  where  the  current  was  swift,  he  had 
a  narrow  escape  from  a  mink.  He  was  talking  with 
a  trout  much  older  and  larger  than  himself  about 
the  comparative  merits  of  worms  and  flies  as  food 


242  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

when  a  dark  form  darted  towards  them  with  open 
jaws,  and,  with  one  snap,  his  neighbour  was  cap- 
tured and  carried  away.  This  foray  caused  great 
excitement  in  the  trout  colony,  and  the  Bully 
learned  for  the  first  time  of  the  existence  of  rapa- 
cious animals  frequenting  the  banks  of  the  river 
which  made  their  living  by  capturing  unwary  trout. 
The  following  summer  he  spent  in  exploring  the 
river  above  the  point  where  the  brook  joined  it. 
Here  there  were  hills  crowding  close  in  on  either 
side  of  the  river,  and  rapids  were  numerous  and 
strong.  Practice  in  rushing  up  the  swift  water 
brought  his  muscles  to  such  a  state  of  development 
that  every  now  and  then  he  would  spend  half  an 
hour  in  jumping  out  of  the  water  as  far  as  he 
could.  In  fact  he  entered  a  jumping  contest  held 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Hemlock  Point  Trout 
Club  late  in  July,  and  carried  off  the  first  prize,  an 
enormous  blue-bottle  fly.  The  judges  on  this  occa- 
sion decided  that  his  jump  was  two  and  a  half  times 
his  own  length  which  would  probably  make  it  some 
twelve  inches.  It  was  during  this  summer  that  he 
became  expert  in  taking  game  on  the  wing.  There 
is  a  tradition  among  the  Oswegatchie  trout  that  on 
one  occasion,  with  a  favourable  start,  he  pulled 
down  a  "  devil's  darning-needle  "  that  was  flying 
eighteen  inches  above  the  surface  of  the  water  and 
going  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  an  hour.  N.  B.— 
This  is  merely  a  tradition  and  is  unsupported  by 
trustworthy  historical  evidence. 


THE  BULLY  OF  THE  OSWEGATCHIE     MS 

The  bullying  tendencies  waxed  strong  during 
this  second  summer.  One  dislikes  to  set  it  down, 
but  it  was  about  this  time  that  he  entered  upon 
those  cannibalistic  practices  in  which  he  persisted 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  One  dark  and  chilly  day, 
when  all  the  millers  and  bugs  and  flies  seemed  to 
have  gone  into  retreat,  noon  came  and  found  him 
with  a  gnawing  pain  in  his  stomach  which  made 
him  almost  beside  himself.  Unfortunately  when 
his  hunger  was  at  its  height  a  little  trout  that  was 
playing  tag  with  some  of  its  fellows  happened  to 
jostle  him.  In  his  anger  the  Bully  snapped  at  and 
swallowed  him.  For  a  moment  he  was  conscience- 
stricken,  and  then,  when  he  realized  what  a  de- 
licious morsel  he  had  taken  to  himself,  he  turned 
to  and  grabbed  up  fifteen  other  little  members  of 
his  family  without  stopping  to  take  breath.  Hence- 
forth he  was  looked  upon  as  a  social  outcast  by  the 
best  people  in  troutdom  and  his  only  intimacies  were 
among  the  tough  and  lawless  members  of  the  com- 
munity. Doubtless  he  brooded  over  this  ostracism, 
and  grew  bitter  as  he  realized  the  evident  contempt 
in  which  he  was  held.  At  any  rate,  he  waxed  more 
and  more  cantankerous  and  disagreeable  as  he  grew 
bigger  and  stronger. 

A  record  of  all  the  experiences  through  which 
the  Bully  passed  would  fill  a  volume.  Only  a  few  of 
the  many  can  be  set  down  in  this  brief  biography, 
and  those  the  more  important  ones.  When  he  was 
three  years  old  he  was  recognized  as  the  boss  of  the 


244.  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

river  above  the  brook.  For  some  time  stories  had 
come  up  stream  of  the  prowess  of  a  big  trout  living 
five  miles  down  the  stream  in  a  mill  pond.  Con- 
fident in  his  ability  to  whip  anything  that  wore  fins, 
the  Bully  started  down  stream  one  May  morning 
bent  upon  challenging  this  far-famed  warrior  to 
mortal  combat.  He  had  gone  about  one-half  the 
distance  and  had  stopped  to  rest  for  a  little  in  a 
riffle,  head  up  stream,  when  a  strange  looking  fly 
came  hopping  and  dancing  across  the  water.  It 
was  many  coloured,  but  that  which  attracted  him 
most  strongly  was  its  body,  which  shone  like  bur- 
nished silver.  Without  the  least  hesitation,  he 
made  a  grab  for  it  only  to  feel  that  same  stinging 
in  the  lip  which  followed  upon  his  experience  with 
the  crooked  worm  when  he  was  a  little  fellow. 
Fortunately  for  him  he  had  touched  the  fly  lightly, 
and,  while  he  felt  a  pull  for  an  instant,  it  was  only 
in  the  skin  of  his  lip,  and  that,  for  some  strange 
reason,  was  torn.  He  started  down  stream  vowing 
that  never  again  would  he  snap  at  a  fly  with  a  silver 
body. 

By  the  second  morning  he  had  reached  the  pond, 
and  found  himself  among  strangers.  It  did  not 
take  long  for  him  to  become  involved  in  a  scrap  with 
a  trout  of  about  his  own  size  from  which  he  quickly 
emerged  triumphant.  Had  the  pond  not  furnished 
seemingly  unlimited  supplies  of  fat  chubs  he 
would  have  proceeded  to  give  free  rein  to  his 
cannibalistic  inclinations;  but  as  it  was  less  trouble 


THE  BULLY  OF  THE  OSWEGATCHIE     245 

to  catch  the  chubs  than  his  own  blood  relations,  he 
rilled  himself  with  the  former,  and  then  took  a  nap 
under  the  shadow  of  a  big  stump,  the  top  of  which 
stood  a  little  way  out  of  the  water. 

A  little  before  sundown,  when  he  was  quite  re- 
freshed and  had  begun  to  think  of  taking  a  little 
turn  about  the  pond  in  search  of  adventure,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  many  voices,  and,  looking  out 
from  his  hiding-place,  saw  a  company  of  trout  mov- 
ing in  his  direction.  In  the  lead  was  his  foe  of 
the  morning.  There,  surrounded  by  an  admiring 
crowd,  came  the  biggest  trout  that  Bully  had  ever 
seen.  His  under  jaw  projected  far  beyond  its  mate 
and  had  an  ugly  upward  curve.  He  was  broad 
across  the  back  and  thick  through  and  moved  with 
all  the  pride  of  a  conquering  hero.  "  Where  is  he? 
Show  him  to  me.  I'll  make  mincemeat  of  the  in- 
solent intruder."  The  booming  voice  of  the  big 
fellow  left  the  Bully  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  identity 
of  the  approaching  monster.  It  was  the  fighter  of 
whom  he  was  in  search. 

The  Bully  would  have  been  scared  if  that  pos- 
sibility had  not  been  denied  him.  Instead  of  fleeing 
in  fear  he  came  out  from  under  cover  and  shouted : 
"  Are  you  talking  about  me  ?  You  big  bluffer ! 
I'll  make  you  food  for  the  crows."  If  the  truth 
must  be  told,  both  the  combatants  used  language 
that  was  not  only  exceedingly  scurrilous,  but  shock- 
ingly profane.  In  this  gentle  exercise  the  Bully 
had  the  best  of  it  and  the  pond  trout  became  so 


246  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

enraged  that  he  dashed  at  his  enemy  with  jaws  ex- 
tended. The  Bully  was  so  busy  swearing  that  he 
came  near  losing  his  life.  As  it  was,  he  dodged 
just  in  time  to  prevent  those  powerful  jaws  from 
closing  upon  him,  but  not  quickly  enough  to  escape 
a  slashing  from  two  big  teeth  which  laid  his  side 
open  in  deep  gashes.  He  was  a  surprised  Bully,  but 
not  dismayed. 

The  battle  that  followed  had  no  historian.  Of 
much  that  took  place,  the  whirling  and  darting,  the 
snapping  and  struggling,  the  reports  that  have  come 
down  through  the  years  are  somewhat  confused 
and  even  contradictory.  It  seems  clear  that  at  the 
first  the  Bully  had  the  worst  of  it.  Besides  the 
gashes  received  in  the  first  attack,  he  lost  one  fin 
and  a  piece  of  his  tail  early  in  the  fray.  The  pond 
trout  had  all  the  advantage  in  size  and  was  cheered 
on  by  his  friends;  but  the  Bully's  gymnastic  exer- 
cises, fighting  with  the  rapids,  stood  him  in  good 
stead  now.  His  muscles  were  steel,  while  those  of 
the  pond  trout  had  grown  somewhat  flabby  since  he 
had  come  to  content  himself  with  life  in  the  still 
water.  As  they  feinted  and  charged  and  whirled 
about,  the  pond  champion  began  to  grow  short  of 
breath  and  found  increasing  difficulty  in  meeting 
the  rushes  of  the  Bully,  who  seemed  to  grow  more 
agile  as  the  battle  raged.  Then  there  came  a 
moment  when  the  Bully  feinted  for  his  opponent's 
tail,  and,  when  the  pond  trout  turned  suddenly  to 
guard  his  caudal  extremity,  he  left  his  throat  un- 


THE  BULLY  OF  THE  OSWEGATCHIE     247 

guarded  for  an  instant — and  it  was  all  over.  Once 
the  Bully  had  set  his  teeth  into  the  white  throat  he 
shook  and  raged  and  tore  while  the  life-blood  of  his 
foe  gushed  out,  and  the  denizens  of  the  pond  saw 
their  supposedly  invincible  warrior  die  before  their 
eyes. 

Nothing  is  known,  certainly,  of  the  Bully's  life 
after  this  up  to  the  day  that  he  met  his  death.  It 
is  whispered  that  before  leaving  the  pond  he  under- 
took to  capture  a  white  miller  that  came  fluttering 
over  the  surface  of  the  water  just  at  dusk  one  night 
and  found  himself  fast  at  the  end  of  a  line  as  in 
his  boyhood.  Some  even  assume  to  say  that  after 
vainly  flinging  himself  into  the  air  in  the  effort 
to  shake  the  miller  out  of  his  mouth,  he  said  good- 
bye to  those  who  had  been  drawn  about  him  by  his 
struggles,  and  was  about  ready  to  give  up  hope 
when  one  last  struggle  took  him  over  and  under  a 
root  and  he  found  himself  free.  They  even  go  so 
far  as  to  say  that  for  many  a  day  after  that  the 
miller  stuck  to  the  Bully's  jaw,  and  that  from  it 
floated  a  fine,  white  thread. 

Another  unsupported  rumour  has  it  that  as  he 
was  going  up  stream  one  day  in  a  narrow  part  of 
the  stream  he  found  a  fine  bunch  of  branches  and 
leaves,  and  gladly  pushed  in  among  them  when  he 
heard  a  disturbance  in  the  water  back  of  him.  No 
sooner  had  he  entered  this  refuge  than  it  began  to 
rise  out  of  the  water,  and  he  shortly  found  himself 
on  shore  and  being  handled  by  an  animal  that  re- 


248  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

sembled  the  boy  who  had  given  him  so  much  trouble 
years  before,  only  much  larger.  Even  then  he 
would  not  give  up  without  an  effort,  and,  summon- 
ing all  his  strength,  he  gave  a  mighty  squirm  and 
escaped  out  of  his  captor's  hands.  He  struck  on 
the  gravel,  gave  two  or  three  tremendous  leaps  and 
was  in  water  again,  free. 

The  Bully  had  grown  to  be  the  biggest  trout  in 
all  that  stretch  of  water,  and  his  under  jaw  pro- 
truded as  far  and  was  quite  as  hooked  as  had  been 
that  of  his  vanquished  enemy  of  the  pond.  An 
August  morning  found  him  well  up  the  river  in 
the  dense  woods  where  the  water  was  cool  and  food 
was  abundant.  He  had  found  a  place  where  the 
water  was  some  four  feet  deep,  and  a  fallen  tree- 
top  made  the  finest  kind  of  a  hiding-place.  Just 
above  him  was  a  clear  space  some  two  feet  in 
diameter  where  now  and  then  he  could  take  a  bug 
or  a  foolish  miller.  Lying  at  his  ease,  he  thought 
with  satisfaction  of  his  numerous  victories  over 
other  trout  and  of  his  good  fortune  in  escaping 
those  strange  beings  which  prowled  along  the  shore 
and  threw  enticing  flies  or  worms  into  the  stream. 
Just  then — but,  before  we  tell  of  this  incident,  we 
must  bring  in  another  story.  That  morning  four 
men  had  broken  camp  some  miles  down  the  stream 
and  started  on  a  sixteen-mile  tramp  back  into  the 
woods,  where  they  were  to  spend  a  month  on  the 
shore  of  a  lake,  fishing  and  hunting.  The  duffle 
was  piled  upon  a  rude  sled  drawn  along  the  trail 


THE  BULLY  OF  THE  OSWEGATCHIE     249 

by  a  horse.  When  two  of  the  party  were  ready 
to  start  ahead  of  the  others,  the  guide,  Fide  Scott, 
said  to  one  of  them,  the  Preacher,  "  We'll  follow 
the  river  for  more  than  half  the  way,  and  if  you 
fellows  can  catch  some  trout  we'll  have  'em  for 
dinner." 

The  Preacher  already  had  hooks  and  a  line  in 
his  pocket,  and  at  once  added  a  supply  of  fat  angle 
worms  from  the  common  stock.  They  had  walked 
for  an  hour  or  more  when  they  came  to  a  point  on 
the  river  where  a  tree  had  fallen  across  the  stream. 
Just  below  this  natural  bridge  the  water  was  deep 
and  still,  and  a  great  mass  of  brush  seemed  to 
promise  an  ideal  hiding-place  for  trout.  To  make 
conditions  exceptionally  favourable  there  was  a 
good-sized  open  place  in  the  centre  of  the  brush 
where  one  might  drop  his  lure  without  the  absolute 
certainty  of  getting  snagged.  The  line  came  out 
of  the  Preacher's  pocket  in  a  hurry,  the  hook  was 
tied  on  and  two  exceedingly  well-developed  worms 
were  looped  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  as  enticing  as 
possible.  A  piece  of  alder,  six  feet  or  so  in  length, 
was  pressed  into  service  and  everything  was  ready 
for  the  piscatorial  adventure.  But  the  pole  was 
too  short.  Doing  his  best,  the  fisherman  could  not 
stand  on  the  shore  and  drop  his  bait  into  that  open 
spot  in  the  brush.  Only  one  thing  remained,  and 
that  was  to  walk  out  on  the  log,  from  which  the 
bark  had  dropped  away,  leaving  it  as  slippery  as  the 
cellar  door  down  which  the  Preacher  had  been  wont 


Culter  Academy    Library 


250  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

to  slide  as  a  boy.  Slowly  and  with  exceeding  cau- 
tion the  adventurer  made  his  way  inch  by  inch 
along  the  log  until  he  had  reached  a  point  from 
which  he  could  drop  his  hook  into  that  most  attrac- 
tive opening  in  the  brush.  Balancing  himself  care- 
fully, he  allowed  that  mass  of  wriggling  worms  to 
touch  the  surface  of  the  water  when — but  now 
we'll  go  back  to  the  Bully. 

When  he  saw  that  bunch  of  angleworms  just 
above  him  he  forgot  the  crooked  worm  which  had 
pricked  him  in  his  childhood.  He  was  sure  that 
here  was  the  most  satisfying  morsel  that  had  ever 
come  his  way  and  rushed  for  it.  He  closed  his 
jaws  on  only  a  part  of  the  mass,  and  the  rest  dis- 
appeared, much  to  his  disappointment.  What  he 
secured  made  him  eager  for  more.  It  was  dis- 
tinctly more  palatable  than  anything  he  had  tasted 
for  many  a  moon.  Just  as  he  was  longing  for  more 
of  the  same  kind — behold !  another  bunch  of  wrig- 
gling, squirming  worms  appeared  in  almost  the 
same  spot.  This  time  he  did  not  propose  to  lose 
any  of  this  meal  so  providentially  provided,  and 
he  made  a  rush  that  enabled  him  not  only  to  grab 
the  entire  mass,  but  to  get  it  well  back  in  his  mouth. 
Then  came  that  upward  pull  which  he  had  felt  in 
former  experiences.  He  kicked  and  struggled  and 
threshed,  making  the  water  boil  about  him.  For 
a  little  his  upward  progress  seemed  to  be  stayed 
and  he  imagined  that  he  would  get  free  after  all. 
Then  his  ascent  began  again  and  continued,  despite 


THE  BULLY  OF  THE  OSWEGATCHIE     251 

all  his  mighty  protests,  until  he  felt  himself  en- 
wrapped and  almost  smothered  by  something,  he 
knew  not  what.  The  Bully  of  the  Upper  Oswe- 
gatchie  never  knew  what  happened  after  that.  He 
could  not  see  the  painfully  anxious  face  of  the 
Preacher  endeavouring  to  balance  himself  on  a 
peeled  log  and  haul  a  big  trout  out  of  the  brush  by 
a  sheer  pull.  He  had  no  knowledge  of  the  fervour 
with  which  the  Preacher  embraced  him,  or  of  the 
perilous  journey  to  the  shore  along  that  treacherous 
pathway.  He  could  not  see  the  comrade  of  the 
Preacher  when,  excited  by  the  splashing  made  by 
the  Bully  in  his  efforts  to  get  off  the  hook,  he 
jumped  into  the  stream  in  his  anxiety  to  be  of  help. 
When  the  rest  of  the  party  came  up,  there  upon 
the  grass  lay  a  noble  fish,  and  the  proud  Preacher 
was  fairly  sizzling  with  eagerness  to  tell  all  about 
the  capture.  There  was  nothing  with  which  to 
weigh  the  Bully,  but  he  measured  a  plump  twenty- 
two  inches  in  length  and  Fide  Scott  placed  his 
weight  at  a  good  five  pounds.  That  Preacher 
fairly  split  the  buttons  from  his  coat,  swelling  with 
pride  when  the  guide  exclaimed :  "  I've  lived  along 
the  Oswegatchie  for  fifty  years  and  he's  the  biggest 
trout  I  ever  saw  took  out  of  the  river." 


OLLA 
PODRIDA 


XIX 
OLLA  PODRIDA 

THE  backward  look  reveals  many 
isolated  bits  of  experience  in  the 
out-of-doors,  not  one  of  them  im- 
portant enough  to  form  the 
nucleus  of  a  story  of  respectable 
size,  and  yet  to  each  one  crying 
out  every  time  we  glance  in  its  direction :  "  Tell 
about  me!"  If  the  reader  finds  nothing  of  interest 
in  these  odds  and  ends,  he  who  writes  may  at  least 
hope  to  quiet  the  importunities  of  these  clamorous 
voices  from  out  of  the  past. 


The  Canasawacta  Creek  is  usually  a  quiet,  inof- 
fensive stream,  making  its  way  between  the  low- 
lying  hills  of  central  New  York  to  its  union  with 
the  Chenango  River.  The  rain  had  been  falling 
steadily  all  day  and  the  creek  was  somewhat 
swollen  when  the  families  in  the  little  hamlet  at 

255 


256  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

South  Plymouth  retired  for  the  night,  but  no  one 
thought  of  danger.  Shortly  after  midnight  a  little 
chap  in  one  of  those  homes  was  awakened  by  his 
father,  who  lifted  him  out  of  his  trundle  bed  and 
wrapped  him  in  a  blanket.  The  lad  did  not  under- 
stand what  had  happened,  even  when  he  saw  the 
water  ankle-deep  on  the  living-room  floor,  or  when 
his  father  carried  him  through  the  swiftly  rushing 
flood  to  the  house  of  a  neighbour  on  the  height  of 
land.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  be  afraid  so  long 
as  his  father's  arms  were  about  him. 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  next  morning  father  and 
boy  walked  hand  in  hand  down  the  street  to  the 
home  which  they  had  so  hastily  abandoned  the 
night  before.  The  creek  had  returned  to  its  bed 
and  was  behaving  much  as  usual.  The  boy  won- 
dered not  a  little  at  the  flood-wood  left  stranded 
against  the  picket  fence,  and  was  not  slow  to  begin 
an  investigation  of  the  changes  wrought  in  his 
playground  by  the  visitor  of  the  previous  night. 

Over  towards  one  corner  of  the  yard  was  a  de- 
pression in  the  ground  with  water  still  standing  in 
it,  and  as  the  lad  passed  this  pool  he  saw  something 
moving.  Although  less  than  three  years  old,  he 
had  learned  that  a  moving  object  in  the  water  was 
very  likely  to  be  a  fish.  Young  as  he  was,  a  great 
passion  of  pursuit  seized  him,  and  he  grabbed  with 
both  hands  at  the  object  dimly  seen  through  the 
roily  water.  Conviction  became  a  certainty  as  he 
felt  the  fish  squirm  out  of  his  grasp  and  received  a 


OLLA  PODRIDA  257 

splash  of  muddy  water  as  the  frightened  victim 
struggled  in  the  shallow  pool.  Clean  clothes  and  a 
mother's  injunctions  were  forgotten  in  the  lust  of 
the  chase.  In  he  waded  and  gathered  that  fish  to 
his  heart  with  both  arms.  When  the  father  re- 
turned from  investigating  conditions  in  the  house, 
there  stood  the  lad,  wet,  muddy,  but  triumphant. 
What  kind  of  a  fish?  The  boy  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  It  was  a  fish — and  that  was  quite  enough, 
especially  when  accompanied  by  the  unquestioning 
conviction  that  it  was  the  biggest  fish  in  all  the 
world.  Since  that  boy  has  grown  to  manhood  he 
has  often  said  to  himself  as  he  looked  upon  an  un- 
promising bit  of  water,  "  You  never  can  tell.  If 
fish  are  to  be  caught  in  your  front  dooryard,  where 
may  you  not  find  them  ?  " 

Many  trout  come  to  view  as  we  peer  into  the 
mists  of  the  long  ago,  but,  among  them  all,  two  are 
in  a  class  by  themselves.  One  of  them  came  out  of 
the  Otselic  River  on  a  day  when  the  boy  had  been 
berrying  and  had  made  a  failure.  Swinging  his 
empty  pail,  he  came  to  the  river  just  where  it  had 
dug  its  way  into  the  bank  and  formed  a  deep  pool 
over  which  the  alders  hung.  No  normal  boy  goes 
abroad  on  any  day,  save  Sunday,  without  a  fish- 
hook and  line  in  his  pocket.  Bringing  forth  these 
essentials  to  happiness,  he  found  a  pole,  dug  an 
angleworm  from  a  muddy  spot,  and  dropped  his 
bait  just  where  the  water  was  blackest.     Sunfish 


258  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

and  perch  and  eels  abounded  in  this  river,  but  it 
was  not  famous  for  trout.  In  fact,  this  boy  was 
not  fishing  for  trout  and  so  was  all  the  more 
amazed  when,  after  a  sharp  struggle,  he  landed  a 
speckled  monster  on  the  grassy  bank.  At  least  he 
seemed  a  monster  in  size  to  the  boy,  and  a  conserva- 
tive adult  estimate  would  place  the  fish  at  well  over 
a  pound. 

Now,  failure  to  find  berries  appeared  plainly 
providential,  for  here  was  the  empty  pail  and  the 
trout  could  be  carried  home  alive.  Under  the  porch 
at  the  back  of  the  house  was  a  half -hogshead,  set 
into  the  ground,  into  which  poured  a  little  stream 
of  pure,  soft  spring  water  brought  from  the  near- 
by hillside  through  a  lead  pipe.  Did  a  trout  ever 
have  a  more  ideal  place  of  residence?  Here  he 
lived  and  thrived  for  many  a  day,  fed  with  untiring 
regularity  until — just  here  memory  fails.  Possibly 
he  died  of  old  age. 

The  boy  had  grown  somewhat  older  and  had 
learned  to  make  and  use  the  "  snare,"  when  he  went 
on  a  visit  to  friends  in  Cortland.  Cortland  is  a 
thriving  city  now,  and  even  then  was  a  wide-awake 
and  bustling  village;  but  its  chief  attraction  to  the 
boy  was  its  river — the  Tioughnioga.  No  sooner 
had  he  said  "How  do  you  do?"  to  his  relatives  than 
he  hurried  to  the  river  bridge  to  snare  suckers. 
Now  don't  sniff,  you  owners  of  hand-made  split- 
bamboo  rods  and  scorners  of  all  fishing  except  that 
for  trout  or  bass!     If  you  will  just  think  back 


OLLA  PODRIDA  259 

along  the  years  until  you  catch  sight  of  yourself 
as  you  once  were,  you  will  realize  that  the  boy 
knows  but  one  rule  when  fishing,  and  that  is,  "  Get 
there !  "  Methods  do  not  matter  to  him  so  that 
he  catches  fish.  Neither  has  he  learned  that  dainty 
discrimination  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  water 
that  comes  with  the  years.  We  know  boys,  even  in 
these  days,  who  would  rather  stand  on  a  log  and 
catch  unlimited  numbers  of  sunfish,  than  to  fish  all 
day  and  take  a  half-dozen  bass. 

He  had  borrowed  a  cane  pole,  and  the  line,  with 
the  slipping-noose  of  shining  copper  wire  at  the 
end,  was  soon  dangling  over  the  side  of  the  bridge. 
Yes,  the  suckers  were  still  there  just  about  as  they 
had  been  a  month  before  when  he  saw  them  but 
lacked  the  paraphernalia  for  their  capture.  Of 
course,  they  were  not  good  eating,  for  it  was  sum- 
mer-time and  their  flesh  was  soft.  So,  as  often 
as  one  was  derricked  wriggling  to  the  bridge,  it  was 
thrown  back,  and  the  process  repeated.  Naturally, 
he  sought  to  catch  the  biggest  ones,  and  when  he 
discovered  one  of  unusual  size  lying  in  the  shadow 
of  a  rock  he  was  all  a-tingle  with  desire  and 
anxiety.  Cautiously  he  dropped  the  snare  well 
above  the  fish  and  gently  guided  it  down  with  the 
current  until  the  copper  wire  was  well  back  of  the 
gills,  and  then  jerked.  Hurrah !  he  had  him ! 
Sucker?  Not  with  that  mouth  and  the  beautiful 
carmine  spots  upon  its  sides.  It  is  a  trout,  and  a 
big  one.     The  suckers  had  lost  their  charm,  and 


260  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

a  bee-line  was  made  for  the  house  of  his  friends 
that    he   might    have   company    in   his    rejoicing. 
Passing  along  the  street,  proudly  dangling  the  big 
trout  from  an  alder  sprout,  he  was  met  by  a  man 
who  stopped  to  admire  the  fish. 
"  Where  did  you  catch  him  ?  " 
"  Down  at  the  bridge.    I  snared  him." 
"  Snared  him  ?    Don't  you  know  that's  illegal  ?  " 
When  the  good-natured  man,  who  had  not  for- 
gotten that  he  was  once  a  boy,  had  explained  that 
snaring  a  trout  laid  one  liable  to  fine  or  imprison- 
ment, a  scared,  small  boy  sneaked  by  back-ways, 
and   with   the   trout   carefully   hidden   under  his 
jacket,  to  the  home  of  his  friends.     Heretofore 
game  laws  had  not  entered  into  his  scheme  of  life. 
He  was  worried  and  unhappy;  but  nothing  hap- 
pened. 

Every  fisherman  has  his  favourite  lure  for  bass. 
Some  put  their  trust  in  frogs,  others  swear  by 
minnows.  The  crawfish,  dobson,  fly,  spoon,  worm, 
lamprey,  pork-rind,  and  almost  innumerable  other 
supposed  attractions, — each  has  its  enthusiastic 
champions.  But  what  will  you  do  when  all  these 
fail?  It  came  pretty  near  being  that  question 
which  was  faced  by  the  boy  who  sought  to  cap- 
ture the  big  bass  lying  under  the  Erie  Canal  bridge. 
On  sunny  days  one  could  stand  on  the  bridge  and 
see  a  score  or  more  of  bass  resting  near  the  bot- 
tom of  the  canal,  but  this  particular  fish,  of  alder- 


OLLA  PODRIDA  261 

manic  proportions,  made  all  the  others  seem  like 
infants.  The  boy  could  and  did  catch  some  of 
these  bass,  but  the  prize  fish  maintained  a  tanta- 
lizing indifference  to  all  that  was  offered.  Once 
or  twice  he  had  rubbed  his  nose  against  a  fat  min- 
now that  was  dangled  directly  in  front  of  him,  but 
usually  he  treated  the  most  enticing  morsel  with 
utter  disdain.  The  boy  had  exhausted  his  reper- 
toire of  attractions,  when,  on  a  certain  morning, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  bridge  with  the  fixed  pur- 
pose to  ignore  the  big  bass  and  devote  himself 
to  more  responsive  members  of  that  family.  As 
he  trudged  along  the  road  he  noticed  an  apple- 
peeling  that  had  been  cast  away  by  some  passer-by. 
A  part  of  it  was  brilliant  red.  An  idea  popped 
into  the  lad's  mind,  only  to  be  turned  out  of  doors 
as  absurd.  But  it  would  not  stay  outside.  Again 
and  again  it  returned  asking  hospitality,  but  the 
boy  was  firm  and  continued  on  his  way.  Once 
more,  as  he  fished,  that  preposterous  idea  thrust 
itself  upon  him,  and  finally  he  retraced  his  steps 
and  picked  up  the  apple-peeling.  Going  back  to 
the  bridge,  he  fastened  a  piece  of  the  red  peeling 
to  his  hook,  red  side  down,  stood  well  out  of  sight 
of  the  fish,  and  began  wiggling  his  pole  in  such 
a  way  that  the  brilliant  peeling  was  compelled  to 
dance  a  jig  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  Only  a 
moment  of  suspense,  and  then  came  a  strike  that 
almost  carried  him  off  his  feet.  Was  it  the  big 
one?     The  pole  bent  until  it  threatened  to  snap 


262  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

in  two.  Pushing  it  rapidly  backwards  through  his 
hands,  he  grasped  the  line  and  proceeded  to  haul 
in  hand  over  hand.  Of  course  a  number  of  things 
might  happen,  any  one  of  which  would  be  a  meas- 
ureless calamity.  But  the  line  did  not  part,  the 
hook  did  not  tear  out,  the  heavens  did  not  fall, 
and  when  at  last  a  noble  bass  was  safely  landed  on 
the  bridge  the  boy  let  out  a  yell  that  might  have 
been  heard  in  Syracuse.  Five  pounds,  four  ounces, 
he  weighed,  and  his  relatives  under  the  canal 
bridge  knew  him  no  more  for  ever. 

The  bass  has  countless  vagaries,  and  one  never 
knows  what  he  will  do  under  given  circumstances. 
As  a  father  and  son  were  fishing  for  small-mouth 
on  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  senior  hooked  a  fish  which 
broke  the  snood  and  went  free.  Now  there  is  a 
persistent  tradition  that,  when  a  bass  has  been 
pricked  by  the  hook,  he  does  not  bite  again  until 
the  passing  of  twenty-four  hours  or  such  a  matter 
has  served  to  wipe  the  experience  from  his  mem- 
ory. In  less  than  an  hour  the  boy  caught  a  two- 
pounder  having  in  its  jaws  the  identical  snood 
which  the  father  had  lost.  The  tradition  was  dis- 
credited, unless  we  assume  that  the  one  caught  had 
envied  the  mouth  ornament  worn  by  the  one 
hooked  earlier  in  the  day,  and,  stealing  it,  had  fixed 
it  in  his  own  jaw. 

Bass  fishing  on  the  Bay  of  Quinte  is  famous 
for  its  excellence.     Not  only  is  there  abundance 


OLLA  PODRIDA  263 

of  fish,  but  they  are  exceptionally  gamey.  Their 
vigour  and  eagerness  to  be  caught  is  illustrated 
by  the  member  of  this  tribe  that  jumped  into  our 
boat.  Every  one  has  heard  of  the  Florida  mullet 
that,  attracted  by  the  light  in  a  boat  at  night,  came 
jumping  over  the  sides  in  such  numbers  that  they 
sank  the  boat  and  imperilled  the  lives  of  those  on 
board.  But  a  bass  is  no  such  fool  fish  as  a  mullet. 
If  they  do  any  jumping  it  is  usually  away  from 
the  boat,  not  towards  it.  The  bass  under  consid- 
eration was  hooked  in  some  twenty  feet  of  water, 
and  put  up  a  vigorous  fight.  The  fisherman  was 
compelled  to  give  out  line  in  considerable  quanti- 
ties, but  when  the  fish  ran  under  the  boat  it  was 
evidently  time  to  "  snub  "  him.  No  sooner  was 
this  done  than  he  gave  a  leap  and  landed  in  the 
boat  from  the  opposite  side. 

As  a  rule,  ladies  are  not  enthusiastic  devotees  of 
the  "  gentle  art."  One,  however,  whom  we  knew 
somewhat  well,  became,  under  the  tutelage  of  her 
husband,  more  than  a  little  expert  in  fishing  for 
bass.  She  had  grown  familiar  with  all  their  ordi- 
nary tricks  and  knew  how  to  drop  the  point  of 
the  rod  to  prevent  an  impending  leap,  and  just 
when  to  give  out  line  and  when  to  reel  in.  Fish- 
ing one  day  on  Round  Lake,  she  hooked  a  bass  and 
proceeded  to  play  it  according  to  the  most  ap- 
proved rules.  She  met  every  rush  and  antici- 
pated every  jump.    Then  the  line  became  limp  and 


264  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

she  said  to  her  husband,  "  He's  off."  Just  then 
the  fish  broke  water  less  than  two  feet  away  from 
the  boat,  flung  himself  into  the  air,  shook  the  hook 
free  from  his  jaws,  and  was  gone.  Here  was  one 
trick  with  which  the  fisherwoman  was  not  familiar. 
Small  wonder  that  she  asked  pathetically,  "  Why 
did  he  do  it?" 

One  makes  strange  catches  sometimes.  We  re- 
call a  gentleman  who,  on  his  initial  experience  in 
trout  fishing,  was  discovered  sitting  on  a  log  by 
the  stream,  examining  a  strange-looking  fish  which 
furnished  the  solitary  evidence  of  his  piscatorial 
skill.  "  Is  that  a  trout?  "  he  asked  of  his  friend. 
"Hardly,"  was  the  reply.  "What  is  it,  then?" 
That  question  remains  unanswered.  It  was  evi- 
dently a  bottom  fish  of  some  kind,  and  resembled 
a  "  hammer-head,"  but  with  some  marked  dif- 
ferences. 

Every  one  familiar  with  sea-fishing  knows  what 
freaks  in  form  and  colouring  are  brought  up  oc- 
casionally when  one  is  fishing  for  cod  or  scup  or 
flounders.  It  remained  for  Mt.  Desert  to  take  a 
safe  lead  of  all  competitors  in  furnishing  peculiar 
returns  to  the  fisherman's  advances.  We  were 
fishing  off  the  pier  at  one  of  the  famous  summer 
resorts  of  this  famous  island.  The  fish  were  not 
responsive  and  it  was  decided  to  quit.  When  the 
fisherman  attempted  to  pull  in  his  line  he  found 
that  his  hook  was  snagged.     Under  a  strong  but 


OLLA  PODRIDA  265 

steady  pull  the  line  began  to  come  in  with  some- 
thing heavy  dragging  at  the  end.  As  it  made  no 
struggle  it  could  hardly  be  a  fish,  and  sunken  logs 
and  sticks  are  not  frequent  in  tide-water.  Slowly 
the  catch  was  drawn  in  until  the  wondering  fish- 
erman could  see  a  jug,  brown  but  not  very  little, 
into  the  handle  of  which  his  hook  had  caught. 
The  wonder  was  that  an  empty,  corked  jug  should 
sink.  When  it  was  discovered  that  a  strong  cord 
anchored  the  jug  to  one  of  the  timbers  of  the  pier, 
a  suspicion  was  created  that  this  jug  had  been 
caught  previously.  A  somewhat  hasty  and  incom- 
plete examination  established  relationship  between 
the  jug  and  the  Maine  prohibition  law,  but  not 
between  the  jug  and  its  owner.  Can  any  other 
fisherman  boast  of  catching  the  "spirits  of  the 
vasty  deep  "  ? 

Perhaps  the  Deacon  had  an  experience  as  ex- 
citing, if  not  as  satisfactory,  as  that  ever  allotted  to 
any  fisherman.  He  and  his  son  and  the  Preacher 
were  fishing  on  Big  St.  Germain.  The  hotel  was 
provided  with  a  porch  which  ran  along  the  en- 
tire front.  As  the  party  came  in  from  an  after- 
noon with  the  pike,  the  rods  were  placed  against 
this  porch,  butts  on  the  ground  and  tips  projecting 
above  the  porch  roof.  The  Preacher  was  the  first 
to  finish  his  supper,  and  as  he  came  out  the  front 
door  a  peculiar  combination  of  sounds  was  heard. 
Spitting,  snarling,  scratching  were  mingled  with 
the  clicking  of  a  reel.     It  was  the  Deacon's  reel 


266  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

that  seemed  to  be  working  alone  and  unaided,  and 
the  mystery  was  solved  only  when  it  was  discov- 
ered that  a  cat  had  climbed  upon  the  porch  roof, 
swallowed  the  minnow  that  the  Deacon  had  failed 
to  remove  from  the  hook,  and  was  now  making 
frantic  efforts  to  escape.  When  the  Deacon  was 
informed  of  what  was  certainly  nothing  short  of  a 
cat-astrophe,  he  hastened  to  the  rescue.  Then  and 
there  was  furnished  such  an  exhibition  of  artistic 
and  skilful  handling  of  a  rod  as  few  have  been 
permitted  to  witness.  If  a  ten-pound  trout  instead 
of  a  cat  had  been  at  the  end  of  the  line,  the  Deacon 
could  not  have  done  better.  Did  the  cat  run  up 
the  side  of  the  building,  the  Deacon  paid  out  line. 
Did  it  run  down  again,  he  reeled  in.  His  poise 
and  calm  were  admirable.  Once,  indeed,  when  the 
youngster  giggled,  the  Deacon's  voice  was  heard 
remarking  that  he  did  not  see  anything  to  laugh 
at.  This  furnished  an  atom  too  much  for 
the  Preacher's  self-control,  and  he  hurried  into  a 
boat  and  rowed  hastily  out  to  the  middle  of  the 
lake  where  he  could  give  vent  to  the  emotions 
which  rent  and  tore  him.  An  hour  later,  when 
the  Preacher  returned,  all  was  peaceful.  Despite 
the  Deacon's  skill — possibly  because  of  it — the 
cat  had  gotten  off. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  muskallonge  walk  over  the 
water  on  its  tail?  It  is  not  claimed  that  this  is  its 
favourite  method  of  taking  a  stroll,  but  only  that 


OLLA  PODRIDA  267 

under  certain  exceptional  circumstances  it  may  be 
induced  to  disport  itself  in  this  manner.  W.  G. 
had  always  felt  like  fishing,  but  circumstances  had 
not  permitted  much  indulgence  of  this  inherent  de- 
sire. When  he  had  succeeded  in  making  arrange- 
ments for  a  trip  to  Pike  Lake  and  found  himself 
on  the  twenty-five-mile  drive  from  the  railway 
station  to  the  lake,  he  was  happy.  To  be  sure, 
the  city-dweller  was  not  quite  prepared  for  the 
quiet  of  the  woods,  and  when  night  came  he  was 
heard  to  aver  that  it  was  so  still  it  made  him  nerv- 
ous. However,  on  the  whole,  he  found  the  experi- 
ence quite  to  his  liking,  and  entered  with  enthusi- 
asm upon  pursuit  of  the  valorous  muskallonge.  It 
was  the  first  one  he  struck  which  furnished  the 
remarkable  phenomenon  of  walking  upon  the  wa- 
ter. He  was  trolling  with  a  steel  rod  and  plenty 
of  line  out,  when  a  careless  muskie  grabbed  the 
hook.  The  figure  which  a  moment  before  had 
been  relaxed  and  seemingly  inert,  became  a  mass 
of  steel  springs.  Over  that  placid  face  came  a 
look  of  such  fierceness  as  fairly  to  frighten  his 
boat-mates.  He  began  to  reel,  but  that  did  not  at 
all  satisfy  his  desire  for  speed.  Casting  the  rod 
aside,  grabbing  the  line  and  standing  up  in  the 
boat,  he  jerked  that  muskallonge  in,  seemingly  a 
rod  at  a  jerk.  To  the  onlookers  the  fish  seemed 
to  touch  only  the  high  places  on  the  water,  and 
then  only  with  his  tail.  Not  one  muskie  out  of 
a  thousand  has  a  mouth  tough  enough  to  stand 


268  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

such  treatment,  but  this  was  an  exceptional  fish. 
He  came  walking  into  the  boat  as  if  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  such  violent  exercise  from  child- 
hood. We  did  not  need  to  club  him;  he  had  died 
of  surprise. 

It  was  a  muskie  that  furnished  us  with  an  in- 
troduction to  those  tricky  scales  which  some  unre- 
generate  fishermen  are  said  to  use.  We  had  jour- 
neyed to  the  Ottonaby  Lakes,  north  of  Port  Hope, 
in  search  of  bass  and  muskallonge.  The  senior 
member  of  the  party  had  never  caught  a  speci- 
men of  the  latter,  and  was  up  at  sunrise  every 
morning  to  be  rowed  up  and  down  until  breakfast- 
time  in  pursuit  of  this  gallant  fish.  When  the 
Preacher  came  down  to  breakfast  one  morning 
there  was  the  old  gentleman,  the  centre  of  an 
admiring  group  gathered  about  a  muskallonge. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  its  genuineness,  but 
when  the  Senior  announced  that  it  weighed  thir- 
teen pounds,  the  Preacher  was  stunned.  He 
thought  of  certain  fish  of  which  he  had  heard 
whose  great  weight  was  found  to  be  due  to  some 
pounds  of  shot  that  had  been  surreptitiously  poured 
down  their  gullets.  One  look  at  the  honest  face  of 
the  Senior  dispelled  all  such  suspicions. 

"Who  weighed  him?" 

"  I  did,"  answered  the  landlord.  "  He  goes  a 
little  over  thirteen  pounds."     After  breakfast  the 


OLLA  PODRIDA  269 

troubled  Preacher  went  behind  the  bar  in  search 
of  those  scales,  and  was  caught  in  the  act  by  the 
landlord. 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  questioned  the  pro- 
prietor. 

"  I  want  to  weigh  that  fish." 

In  a  low  voice  that  could  not  reach  the  Senior 
in  the  adjoining  dining-room,  the  landlord  said: 
"  Never  mind.  I'll  tell  you.  That  fish  weighs  just 
five  pounds." 

And  that  unsuspicious  old  man  went  back  home 
and  bragged  of  his  thirteen-pound  muskie,  while 
the  Preacher  said  never  a  word.  What's  the  use 
of  spoiling  a  good  story? 

Some  people  seem  to  be  naturally  skeptical  about 
fish  stories.  They  should  not  be,  for  tales  of  pis- 
catorial adventure  are  peculiar  in  that,  no  matter 
how  big  they  are  made,  they  can  never  equal  the 
facts.  The  Preacher  had  just  come  to  his  new 
parish,  and  after  a  month  or  so  of  work  there  had 
taken  a  trip  to  the  Nepigon.  He  could  do  nothing 
less,  on  his  return,  than  tell  stories  of  big  trout,  for 
there  were  no  others  to  tell  about.  At  the  dinner 
table  in  one  of  the  homes  of  his  parish  he  had  been 
relating  some  of  his  fishing  adventures  on  the  fa- 
mous stream,  of  an  eight-pound  trout  taken  at  Vic- 
toria Pool  and  the  numbers  that  went  four  and 
five  pounds  each,  when  the  hostess,  a  vivacious  and 
witty  woman,  threw  up  her  hands  and  jocularly 


270  DAYS  IN  THE  OPEN 

exclaimed :  "  For  Heaven's  sake !    What  sort  of  a 
pastor  have  we  drawn?" 

It  was  a  year  or  two  later  that  the  Preacher, 
when  spending  a  few  days  on  Tomahawk  Lake, 
caught  a  muskie  that  went  a  little  over  seventeen 
pounds.  Recalling  the  skepticism  of  his  parish- 
ioner, he  had  the  fish  packed  in  a  box  where  it 
could  lie  out  at  full  length,  surrounded  it  with 
moss  and  ice,  and  expressed  it  to  the  doubter. 
When  he  reached  home  again  the  skeptic  had  been 
soundly  converted  from  the  error  of  her  ways.  On 
their  first  meeting  after  the  reception  of  the  mus- 
kie, she  said :  "  Pastor,  after  this  you  may  tell 
any  fish-lie  you  like  and  I  will  swear  to  it." 


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